


Dwelling

by aideomai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Curses, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Top Draco Malfoy, all will become clear i hope, but in the meantime: Draco and Harry make a birthday card, part 2: things become a little clearer, part 3: everything gets super sad ur welcome!!!!, there's some weird stuff going on here ngl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 65,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aideomai/pseuds/aideomai
Summary: Curses, James and Lily Potter ride again, several Ministry balls, a teenage Summer of Love, a grim young adult dystopian winter, a few different Draco Malfoys, secrets and the problems re: not having any, alternate lives, impossible lives, real lives, allusions toDirty Dancing, and just because it's not called the Mirror of Erised doesn't mean you shouldn't know better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's mum always gave the best advice, except when she didn't want him to make friends with Draco Malfoy.
> 
> This is not an AU.

**FIRST YEAR**

_Not Slytherin_ , Harry thought, _please,_ not _Slytherin_ , and the Sorting Hat said, “Well, if you’re so sure. GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry stumbled to the Gryffindor table, relieved, legs wobbling beneath him, and slid onto a long bench in just enough time before his knees buckled. He hadn’t realised how nervous he was until it had been happening, he thought dumbly, and twisted his fingers together under the table. He kept his head down, blinking quickly, until Ron Weasley slid into the spot next to him and said triumphantly, “There! Now, what’s for dinner?”

Harry grinned at him, and Ron beamed back, and Harry remembered in a sudden rush all of the things he was excited about for Hogwarts. He grabbed his cutlery and said, “It’s all so good!”

And it was good: Hogwarts was everything he’d been promised it would be, from the moving stairs to the ghosts to the classes. Even the bad things had a sheen of joy: the piles of homework was strange and annoying, but it was fun to be able to complain about it with his friends, wandering up and down the halls and feeling very grown up as he rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, Flitwick’s _always_ giving us essays.” Snape, the Potions Master, loathed him, but Harry had been forewarned. He wrote for advice and got back: _best to keep your head down, Harry. But if you make a few faces behind his back, who’s going to know? PS Snivellus is a great nickname._

The only thing that wasn’t really fun was Draco Malfoy and his cronies, but Crabbe and Goyle were so stupid it was embarrassing, really, and Harry could ignore Malfoy’s sneering, his horrible comments. He was better than Malfoy, he reminded himself, and he told Ron that, too.

Besides, for the most part up in the Gryffindor dorms he didn’t have to worry about Malfoy at all. And the Boy Who Lived was in his dorms, too: sort of moon-faced and a bit clumsier and sadder than they’d all been expecting, but friendly enough. It didn’t matter so much that he was a bit of a weirdo, anyway, because he and Granger went around being weirdos together, and she was much less obnoxious when she wasn’t lording it over everyone else, when she was just sitting in the back of the classroom anxiously whispering to Neville and trying to help him.

Then Draco made an idiot of himself trying to bully Neville, and made enemies of all the Gryffindors _and_ managed to get Harry a chance for the Quidditch Team, which was excellent and funny to see things backfire so roundly on him, and Harry was all ready to get Ron on the team next year, and really, he wrote in his next letter, things were so, so good. He was happy. Hogwarts was everything that had been promised to him.

The only thing was that weird bit that the Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin. He didn’t tell anyone about it for as long as he could, but finally he was sick of lying awake fretting about it, and he sat up in bed and wrote a letter at midnight, sent it off right away, risking capture by Filch and not even caring.

It was worth it. The next morning at breakfast Hedwig swooped down with a return letter.

_Harry, there are so many ways a life can go, so many tiny personality traits that can change and shift. I know that there have been good Slytherins, and that if you’d been Sorted into Slytherin you would have been one of them. But it’s our choices that matter most, and you chose to be a Gryffindor. I don’t think you need to worry about not belonging there. You’re a funny, clever, brave boy, and wherever you choose to make a home, I just know you’ll be welcome there._

“What’s that?” Ron asked, through a mouthful of toast, and Harry didn’t answer but grinned, folding the letter up and tucking it securely into the pocket of his robe.

His mum always knew the right thing to say.

\---

“ _Horrible_ little rat,” Ron fumed, as they stormed away from Transfigurations. “No wonder he’s in Slytherin. I can’t believe Hogwarts even let him in, he should be in _Durmstrang_ or something.”

“He’s always bragging about it,” Harry agreed. “Don’t know why he doesn’t bugger off and just go there instead. Save us looking at his stupid face all the time.”

“Exactly,” Ron said fervently. “Ugh. Strutting about, pretending like he owns the school—”

Draco caught up with them then, pink-faced and cruel, still wearing his _stupid_ outfit. “Not like this, I’m not!” he shouted, laughing gleefully. “Weasleys don’t own _anything_ , don’t you know? And I’m taking my Halloween costume very seriously - notice the ripped robes?”

He did a nasty little twirl, and Ron snarled, lurching forward. Harry grabbed him by the back of the robes, because the ghosts were about and they’d report it to McGonagall if Ron got into another fight.

“Leave him, Ron,” Harry said through gritted teeth, glaring at Draco. Draco looked _stupid_ , wearing his red wig all askew and practically dancing with malicious glee. “He’s not worth it.”

“Aren’t worth it, am I, Potter?” Draco sneered. “You can talk. Swaggering about, pretending like you’re so cool—”

“I don’t have to pretend anything, Malfoy,” Harry said. “Unlike you, I’m not a complete poser.”

“Oh, _good_ one,” Draco said. “It’s such a pity you’ve sunk to hanging out with trash like this. Still, I guess you’re drawn to your own kind—”

“You’d know all about that,” Harry said, and Draco’s mouth snapped shut. They glared at each other.

“You can wear your stupid costume all you like,” Ron said, with great effort. “You’re - you’re pathetic. You’re always trying to get Harry’s attention. Like we care about you at all.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Like we’d ever want to hang out with a _Death Eater kid_. No one would ever wanna be friends with you, Malfoy.”

“Like anyone would with _you_ , Potter!”

“Well,” Harry said, with an enormous, nasty sense of satisfaction, “you tell me.”

Draco stared at him, white-faced, and then whirled around and threw himself through the closest bathroom door.

“Ha!” Ron said, looking thoroughly cheered up. “You showed him.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his chest. “Yeah. Let’s - come on, we’re going to be late for the feast.”

\---

Then Quirrell burst in shouting about trolls and dungeons and Harry was halfway up to the Gryffindor Common Room with Ron when he realised.

“Ron,” he said, blanching, “I - Ron, Malfoy didn’t come down to the feast. He won’t know about the troll.”

“So?” Ron said and then, looking very hopeful, “Maybe it’ll eat him.”

“Ron,” Harry said. He swallowed hard. “We can’t leave him. He might try and go back to the Slytherin Common Room and that’s - that’s right in the dungeons, he’d run straight into the troll—”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Ron said, looking furious, “come on, then! Hurry!” and they ducked out of the line.

And because Malfoy was always more trouble than he was worth, by the time they got to the bathroom he was actually trying, rather unsuccessfully and tearfully, to fight off a great bloody troll, and Ron and Harry had to join in, of course, because Harry was pretty sure his parents would say that no matter how terrible someone was you couldn’t just let them get eaten by a troll. It was only through a lot of jumping about and a _bloody_ lucky spell on Ron’s behalf that they managed to knock it out.

Then it lay between them, massive, even its unconscious silence huge and spreading through the bathroom, even the sprinkling of the broken taps dulled by the enormity of what they’d done. Harry stood with his shoulder pressed against Ron’s, and on the other side of the troll’s enormous, heavy body, Draco stood staring at them with a pale, tear-streaked face, lip already curling into a snarl.

Panting, Ron said, “Don’t say ‘thanks for saving my life’ or anything, will you, Malfoy.”

Draco turned and seized a piece of porcelain from one of the broken sinks and threw it at Harry’s head.

“Shut up!” he bellowed, as if Harry was the one who had spoken. “Shut _up_!”

“Draco!” Harry said, alarmed, and ducked.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Draco yelped, hurling more rubble at him. Harry half wanted to shelter behind the unconscious troll, skipping from place to place and trying unsuccessfully to duck between the splintered stalls while Ron stared bewildered at them both. “How dare you! You’re a horrible, terrible boy, and - and - and my mother says you’re just mean!”

“All right, leave off, Malfoy,” Harry said, daring to pop his head up. “You - you’re bleeding—” and Draco gave another howl of outrage and threw what Harry thought might be a brick at his head.

“You were meant to be my _friend_!” Draco screamed. He threw another brick. Harry skidded under a stall and up around the other side of the troll. He was vaguely aware of Ron still staring with his mouth open. “I hate you!”

“I - it’s complicated,” Harry protested weakly. “I - look, I still - you’ve been horrible since school started, all right?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t come sucking up to you like everyone else,” Draco sneered. “Not after you _dropped_ me on the train, you utter berk—”

“I didn’t—”

“And _ignored_ me all last year—”

“Draco—”

“But oh, I’m supposed to be grateful you didn’t let a troll eat me! Harry Potter,” Draco shrieked, “you are the _worst_!” and then, finding Harry suddenly in front of him, he headbutted him.

“Ow!” Harry said, stumbling back, and that was about when Professors Snape and McGonagall showed up and gave them all a week of detention and sent them all back to their dorms.

Quietly, almost disbelievingly, Ron said, “You were friends?”

“It’s complicated,” Harry grumbled.

But it wasn’t, really.

\---

He’d been about to turn nine and annoyed that they couldn’t stay around England and go camping with the Weasleys, or, if they _had_ to go abroad, off to Rome where Sirius and Remus were spending the summer. Sirius had told him, winking, that Italy had mopeds everywhere and everyone could drive them, “even little squirts like you,” but Mum had overheard him and put a firm stop to that. So instead they’d gone to _stupid_ France and the _stupid_ countryside and there weren’t any other kids for miles and miles around and Harry’s parents wanted to do all sorts of stupid, boring things, like hiking and rowing and having picnics where they smiled dopily at each other. It was awful.

Or it had been, until he’d gone wandering off on his own and found a field and climbed a tree and then there’d been a treehouse in it, and in the treehouse, a boy, who blinked at him and said, in the poshest accent of all time, “I say, you shouldn’t have been able to find this, Muggle.”

“I’m not a Muggle,” Harry had said. “I’m Harry.”

The boy had looked doubtful.

Harry sighed, and said, “My Mum and Dad are magic.”

“Oh,” the boy had said. “Well, all right then. I’m Draco. Aren’t you having the most miserable summer of your life?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry agreed fervently, and they shook hands and sat down to complain about their parents - apparently Draco had a really good house back in England and was taming a range of pets (“I expect I’ll be onto hippogriffs soon”) and all of his friends had gone to some camp, but his parents though it was too common.

“My parents say summer is for family,” Harry had said glumly, “and that we all have to stick together, but then they only want to do boring things.”

“Adults are _so stupid_ ,” Draco said, with a very authoritative air that made Harry laugh. Draco frowned at him. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, grinning, “you’re right,” and the summer hadn’t been so miserable after that. He’d ended up going out to the treehouse with Draco nearly every day, except for when one of their parents got ideas about going to the seaside or whatever, and even that wasn’t very often. For all their talk about family holidays, Harry got the feeling that his parents were a little relieved he’d found something to occupy his days, and they thought it was charming that he’d made friends with a local.

The next year Harry stayed quiet while his parents planned the summer, until Dad said, “Come on, bud. You’re not going to give us a hard time about staying in England again?”

“No,” Harry had said. “Well. We could go back to that French house. If you wanted.”

On the first day they’d arrived, he’d split off first chance he’d got to the treehouse, where Draco stuck his head out the window and said, “Thank _Merlin_ , I thought you’d never show up,” and they’d reembarked on a summer of adventures and dumb games and long, meandering conversations.

Draco was too posh to live, and a complete weirdo, and _so_ bossy, but he did excellent impressions and had the best ideas about games to play and he would stay up talking with Harry for as long as he could. They brought packed picnics and explored the forest and dared each other to go to a Muggle road and take turns running across it. Draco had a seemingly endless supply of trinkets and toys, and then they both took their toy brooms and spent hours racing around the forest floor, chasing imaginary snitches. They pushed how long they could wait to go back for dinner, and compared stories of getting in trouble for how late they were the next day. Harry’s skin went as brown as his dad’s, and Draco’s pale hair went all golden from the days of sunlight, and they lay drowsily side by side and held up their forearms, admiring the contrast.

At the end of the summer, Draco said sleepily, “Well, I’ll see you next year, I expect.”

“Yes,” Harry said, and then, hesitantly, “and - and will you go to Hogwarts after that?”

“Of course,” Draco said, and grinned at him. “Maybe we’ll be in the same house.”

“Probably,” Harry agreed. “You’re - one of my best friends. Top three. After Ron, maybe.”

“Ron’s a stupid name,” Draco said. “It sounds like a pet.”

Harry yawned and nudged Draco and said, “Be nice.”

“Mm,” Draco said. “Here, though. I’ll give you my address. You can write to me throughout the year.”

“All right,” Harry said, a little unsure. He didn’t really write letters. But Draco was so sure about it, the way he was about everything. 

And it turned out Draco had written great letters: long and rambly and full of fury at the people who had wronged him - mostly various house elves - but always really funny. Sometimes he wrote out little playscripts of the arguments between his parents or his friends. It made Harry laugh so much his sides hurt.

His parents liked it too. “I think it’s very sweet, that you’ve got such a good friend,” his mum said, ruffling his hair. “Just as charming as your dad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, dimpling up at her, and went back to laboriously writing his response. He was aware that he wasn’t as good at writing as Draco, but Draco never seemed to mind. He always ended his letters to Harry with a paragraph full of demanding questions, and that gave Harry a place to start.

Only one day, just when Harry was getting ready to send off a new letter, his mum came back to check he’d cleaned Hedwig’s cage, saw the envelope, and froze.

“Malfoy Manor?” she said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Hey, how come our house isn’t named after us, like Draco’s?”

“I - is Draco a Malfoy?”

“Mmm,” Harry said, tying the letter to Hedwig’s claws. “Draco Malfoy. He doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, he said.” He grinned up at Mum. “Like me.”

“Harry,” his mum said, and her voice was gentle but her face had gone all tight, like he was in trouble, and she very carefully took the letter away.

Later that night, his mum and dad sat him down and explained about the Malfoys, how they’d been followers of You-Know-Who, how they were not good people, how they thought people like Harry’s Mum weren’t as good as them, how they didn’t think she or even Harry should be allowed to go to Hogwarts. Harry said hesitantly, “But I don’t think Draco’s like that,” and Harry’s parents exchanged wary glances and then said that even if it didn’t seem like it, Draco probably wasn’t a very good person to be friends with. He probably wasn’t a good person to write to. Harry had plenty of friends: he didn’t need Draco Malfoy.

They made him promise to stop writing to Draco, and that summer they went camping with the Weasleys instead.

They were right, Harry thought, tossing restlessly in his bed. His parents were usually right, and they were _good_ , they were _heroes_ , they went to parties that said so. They’d helped save the world, his parents and Sirius and Remus and everyone, them and Neville Longbottom, the Boy Who Lived. Draco Malfoy and his family had wanted them to lose. His parents hadn’t told him so, but Harry knew that if Draco Malfoy and his family had gotten their way, his parents would be dead, just like Neville Longbottom’s.

So when Draco had found him on the Hogwarts Express, face shining, and said, “ _There_ you are! Why did you stop writing?” it had felt very easy to turn away and sneer, “Like I’d ever write to Death Eater scum like _you_.” Ron had sniggered, and Harry had known that he’d done what his parents would have wanted, and it had felt right.

But now, lying awake, he kept thinking of Draco’s face before Harry had turned away, the shock blooming, his smile faltering; and the way he’d looked tonight with the troll, hurt and near tears again, like he’d spent all this time thinking about Harry rejecting him. Like he’d been _upset_.

In detention the next day, Draco was pale and furious and refused to make eye contact with him, until Harry shouldered his way between Draco and the cauldron he was cleaning.

“All right, look,” he said. “I’m sorry. But you have to be nice to Ron.”

“ _What_ ,” Ron said, and Draco glared at him, eyes narrowed.

“Why would I want to?” he sneered. “Why would I want to be friends with Gryffindor _losers_?”

“Because,” Harry said, “because,” and then he stammered and couldn’t think of anything. He stared at Draco, feeling suddenly very small and stupid and bad, like he’d been wrong all this time.

After a moment Draco looked up at him. His pointy little face screwed up. He said, “Do you have access to the Quidditch supplies?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Well,” Draco said, “want to go flying after this?”

“Ron’s coming too,” Harry said.

After a moment, they all three shook hands.

**SECOND YEAR**

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “It all seems a bit weird. Hey, do you think _you’re_ the Heir of Slytherin?”

“I wish,” Draco said grumpily. “But Mum and Dad have their family histories traced back for sixteen centuries and apparently Slytherin was a bit too New Money to marry in then.”

“Hermione and Neville suspect you,” Ron said. “And Hermione Granger’s really smart, you know.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a glance.

“Well, if Granger says so,” Draco said, and reached for a green pen.

“Draco!” Harry said. “No green!”

“Oh, come on, your dad’s not going to guess we’re hanging out from colours on his birthday card,” Draco said, although Harry thought the snake border Draco was diligently drawing around the border of the card they were making might give Dad a bit of a clue. They got kicked out of the library for talking too loudly then, anyway, so it didn’t matter, and they went to go and slide down the bannisters on the third floor instead. Harry would finish the card later.

All the weird stuff going on was a bit scary, Harry supposed, but he and Ron and Draco seemed apart from it. Draco was supremely sure that they wouldn’t be hurt, and the castle seemed quiet and benign around them all year.

**THIRD YEAR**

Harry and his parents didn’t go away for whole summers anymore, now that he was at Hogwarts; there was always unpacking, and he liked being able to settle into his room at Godric’s Hollow. They’d go away for a week or two to the seaside, but most of the time was at home, which was nice. They visited the Weasleys a lot, and Sirius and Remus were always round, and Ron came to stay for a while. Harry wished, a little guiltily, that he could have Draco to stay too, but he’d decided two years ago to keep their renewed friendship secret-ish, and he didn’t want to know what his parents would say if they knew.

His parents went out quite a bit together, but normally that meant he either got to stay with the Weasleys or Sirius came round, ragged and grinning: “I’m not as good at appearances as your mum and dad,” he’d say, tweaking Harry’s nose, and then he’d let Harry stay up late and sometimes give him a ride on the motorbike.

A week before he went back to school for third year, though, his mum said, “You can come with us tonight if you like, Harry. There’ll be some other children there, I think. Neville Longbottom, and Susan Bones, at least.”

“All right,” Harry said, because he liked going out with his parents, even if it meant he had to wear the fussy, uncomfortable dress robes and try to brush his hair. He made a horrible face at his dad as he tried it, and his dad winked back at him, buttoning up his own collar.

“Why don’t I get to wear achkan like Dad?” Harry complained. “They’re cooler than stupid robes. I want - the bits of gold--”

“You’re just not as cool as me, champ,” Dad said.

“We had to buy you dress robes for Hogwarts anyway,” his mum said, making a face at his dad. “And you don’t need _two_ sets of formal robes - just hold still, I think I can get it to sit flat--”

“ _Mum_ ,” Harry wailed, and eventually they got out the door and into the carriage and to the Ministry Ball, which was very glitzy and had a long table that Harry immediately focused on, filled to bursting with sweets.

“One round with us, honey,” his mum said, holding his hand, “and then you can hide under the table and eat as much as you like.”

With that promise, Harry let her lead him around to be hand-shook and head-patted by various strangers. He waved awkwardly at Susan Bones and grinned at Neville, who looked absolutely miserable with his grandma’s firm grip on his wrist. There were other kids from Hogwarts about, Harry noticed; they’d probably all end up hanging out soon as the adults let them escape. It was a cool hall, anyway, decked out in gold and fairies, and there were lots of interesting outfits about, and Harry let himself be pulled about by his mum quite amiably.

Then Dad took his hand as well, grip tighter than normal, and his voice was colder and angrier than Harry had ever heard it when he said, “Malfoy.”

Harry’s head jerked back from where he’d been eyeing a giant floating fountain of what looked like ice cream, and realised that Draco was standing in front of him, buttoned up in high black robes, with two people who must be his parents looming over him. 

“Potters,” Draco’s dad said coolly.

Harry caught Draco’s eye. Draco waggled his eyebrows. Harry’s mouth twitched. They both made big eyes at each other that, Harry thought, conveyed very well: _shhhhh!_

“How funny to see you here,” Harry’s mum said. Her voice was very cool and calm; the way she talked to Harry’s aunt, the one he didn’t see very often. “I didn’t think this was your sort of scene.”

“No, Muggle-loving do-gooders aren’t, usually,” Draco’s father said. “But we were invited by the Minister. You know how it is.”

Draco’s gaze darted up to a corner of the ballroom, and then back to Harry meaningfully. Harry rolled his shoulders back at his parents, and made a face. Draco sighed, too loudly; their parents’ attention dropped to him.

“Harry Potter,” Draco’s father said, with a bit of a sneer. “You look just like your father.”

Harry blinked at him. “Most people do,” he said, and Harry’s dad’s hand tightened around Harry’s. 

Mrs Malfoy looked down at him. She was very beautiful, although in a cold, slightly frightening way - not, Harry thought loyally, like his mum. As he watched, the corner of her mouth twitched up in what Harry thought might be a very small smile.

“How very clever,” Draco’s father said, still sneering. “I see you’re just like both your parents. Never sure when to _shut your_ \--”

“Harry,” his mum said, “why don’t you go play with Neville Longbottom?”

“All right,” Harry said, and darted away through the crowd, Mr Malfoy’s voice drifting after him: “Ah, yes, our little hero…” 

Harry didn’t go find Neville. He swiped a large silver dish of pudding and headed quickly up the staircase before anyone could spot him, dropping down and slotting his legs between the gilt iron balcony, dangling his feet over the edge.

After a while, Draco came up and sat next to him. He handed Harry an enormous golden tray of chocolates and Harry handed him the pudding and they ate in cheerful silence.

“Your dad’s very mean,” Harry said finally, and Draco frowned, eyebrows drawing together.

“What d’you mean?”

“I dunno.” Harry shrugged. “He’s kind of scary.”

Draco looked pleased, chest puffing out, and said airily, “Yes, I expect so. We’re Malfoys, you know--”

Harry rolled his eyes. “ _I_ wasn’t scared,” he said. “And you’re not even a little scary. You’re a big wet blanket.”

“I’ll kill you, Potter,” Draco said. The chocolates went flying as he lunged at Harry and they scuffled for a bit, coming awfully close to rolling down the stairs at one point, until they were both breathless with laughter and could give up without anyone having to cry surrender.

While they were catching their breath and inspecting the chocolates to see which ones were still good to eat, Harry said, “I don’t think my parents like yours very much.”

“Um,” Draco said. He looked suddenly nervous. “Well. We knew that.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, and sighed. “Pity you can’t come to my birthday party this week, that’s all.”

“Pity you couldn’t have come to _mine_ ,” Draco said immediately. “It was brilliant. I had hundreds of presents, and we all got to ride on a dragon.”

“You did not,” Harry said.

“Did too!”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry said, “‘cos Millie wrote to me and said that it was just a balloon shaped like a dragon, and it couldn’t even get very high off the ground. Like a _kid’s_ toy.” 

She’d also said it had been really cool all the same, and that the food had been better even than Hogwarts feasts, and that they’d stayed the night and done midnight tours of the Manor and a raid on the kitchens and taken turns riding in a toy chariot that the house elves had to pull. Harry had been up all night sick with jealousy about the whole thing.

“There was another dragon,” Draco said. “After Millie went home.”

Harry laughed. “Whatever, Malfoy.”

“It was cooler than your dumb party will be,” Draco said sulkily, but Harry just passed him the pudding dish again. After a moment Draco added, quieter, “Thanks for the present, though.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said. He’d saved up his pocket money all summer, because he knew his parents wouldn’t buy a present for Draco Malfoy without asking any questions, the way they would for Ron. It had been worth it, though; a set of mirrors that they could talk on, even when they were in different towers. It meant Draco didn’t have to get so jealous about Ron and Harry hanging out in the Gryffindor Common Room; they could just prop up the mirror and it would be like he was there, too. Harry had written so, awkwardly, in a card he’d made himself.

“I’ve got you something, too,” Draco said. “But I’ll bring it to Hogwarts. It’s annoying, your birthday’s too close to leaving for school.”

“Mm,” Harry said. “That’s okay.”

“It’s really good though,” Draco said grandly. “You’re so lucky to have me as a friend.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “All right, Draco,” he said, and then the orchestra started up properly, and he ended up gazing down as people whirled up and down the ballroom floor. Robes swept out and around the floor and they all looked so grand; he saw his mum laughing in his dad’s arms, her red hair flying like a flag as he spun her round. Harry bit his cheek to keep from beaming, but when he looked over Draco was watching it too, eyes bright.

“Cool, isn’t it?” Draco said. “I can’t wait until we can join in.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, not sure he was ready to express his own enthusiasm for ballroom dancing.

“Come on, it’s fun!” Draco jumped up, wiping dessert-sticky hands on his robes. “Me and Pansy have lessons. I’ll show you.”

“Fine,” Harry said, a little dubiously. Draco made a fussy little noise and grabbed Harry’s arm, put it on his shoulder, and put his own hand on Harry’s waist. Then they clasped hands, weirdly formal. The grip was a little sweaty, but Draco was right, and it was fun: they steered each other around the little marble balcony, swinging around and stepping on each other’s toes a lot.

“ _Step_ -step-step- _step_ -step-step -- watch it, Potter, that’s the third time you’ve stepped on my toes,” Draco said, and forced Harry to twirl under his arm, which meant they nearly bumped heads, because Harry was taller than Draco, the idiot. “And - _one_ \- and - _three_ \- oh, you’re so bad at this--”

Harry couldn’t stop laughing, breathless and pleased. “You’re quite good,” he said, enjoying himself enough to be generous, and it was worth it: Draco beamed at him and drew himself up a little taller - not tall enough - and they started charging around, Draco humming madly along to the music.

There was a flash of bright light and Harry stumbled, blinking rapidly.

“Well, isn’t this _darling_ ,” a bright, trilling voice said, and Harry looked up into the enormous green eyes of a strange woman with lacquered blonde curls and a big smiling mouth. “Hello, boys - Rita Skeeter, I’m sure you’ve heard of me--”

“My mother says you write absolute rubbish,” Draco piped up, looking quite interested. “But my father reads your column secretly in the loo.”

Rita Skeeter’s eyes narrowed. “Narcissa Malfoy always thought an awful lot of herself,” she said. “No matter. Boys! This is a very adorable friendship - a Malfoy and a Potter, who would have thought it? How’d you two meet? Hogwarts? Aren’t you in different houses?”

“Only just,” Draco said grandly, and Harry stepped on his toe, because he didn’t want to tell just _anyone_ about the Slytherin near-miss. Draco gave him an apologetic look, but then went into a long and over the top story about how together they overcame a troll, and all their glorious adventures over the last two years. Harry leaned on Draco’s shoulder and tried not to yawn.

After Skeeter went, Draco said, satisfied, “Bout time someone paid attention to the next Malfoy generation. Mother always says I shouldn’t talk to press, but I’m sure I can hardly be told off for _that_.”

\---

Harry was grounded for the next week.

It didn’t help his parents’ mood much when Draco met him at the Hogwarts Express, pink-cheeked and twitching with barely concealed excitement, with Harry’s birthday present.

But it was worth it. The Firebolt was _brilliant_.

**FOURTH YEAR**

“Draco!” Harry said, and Draco whirled around and ducked out from under his mother’s hand, coming up the wooden steps of the stands two at a time.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said, looking pleased, “Weasley. Where are you sitting, then? We’re in the Minister’s box, if you want to come--”

But Harry’s dad’s hand came to land on his shoulder, heavy and immoving, and Harry didn’t need to look back to imagine the cold, furious looks his parents had trained on the Malfoys below. Ron gave him and Draco an exaggerated gulp, then laughed, scuffling his feet a little.

“Better not,” Harry said, and then, quickly, “How’s your summer been?”

“Harry,” Lily said. “We’d better get to our seats.”

“Fine, fine,” Draco said, rattling it off, obviously realising too that they didn’t have much time. “We went to France - Harry, they’ve knocked down the treehouse--”

“No!”

“I know!” Draco grinned. “Whatever. I don’t think I would have fit in it anymore, anyway.”

“Still,” Harry said, stung. “Who’d have done that?”

“Bastards,” Draco said, “proper bastards -- what’ve you two been up to? Back to Egypt again, Weasley?”

Ron made a face. “Think that was a once in a lifetime thing, mate. Our families went camping in Cornwall - Ginny tried to smuggle Neville in and then we found him in her tent--”

“She _never_ ,” Draco said. “She’s only thirteen!”

“She’s a live wire, Mum says,” Harry said, “and anyway, she keeps smirking ‘bout it but they were only playing cards--”

“Course they were,” Draco said. “It’s not like _Longbottom_ has any moves, the big lump--”

“Harry,” James said, voice cold enough that Harry knew it wasn’t for him, at all. 

“Right,” he said reluctantly, “I’ll - maybe we’ll see you later--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco said, and looked for a moment as though he was going to hug both of them, before he rolled his eyes up at Harry’s parents and turned, shouldering back through the crowd to his parents.

“Harry,” Harry’s dad said. “We’ve told you we don’t want you hanging about with that boy.” He sounded furious. “Ron, I don’t think your parents would be too happy, either.”

“Oh, well,” Ron said weakly, and mumbled something about how what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. Harry gave him a dirty look.

“He’s our friend,” he said.

“You know I love your loyalty, Harry,” his mum said, “but Malfoys are not good friends to have. You’ll learn that eventually. I worry that he will do something terrible, one day.”

Harry set his jaw and didn’t answer; it wasn’t fair that his parents were so mean about Draco; they didn’t know him at _all_ , and Harry felt even more certain of that when chaos broke out at the World Cup that night, witches and wizards in dark hoods with cruel laughs and spells that sent fire lurching across the campyard, and Harry and Ron got separated from the group and were running, trying to find somebody, anybody, and then Draco loomed up out of the darkness and grabbed Harry urgently by the wrist and said, “What are you _doing_?”

“Malfoy!” Ron said. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Draco said. “Are _you_ two okay?”

“We’re all right,” Harry said, and then another jet of fire went streaking over the sky, uncomfortably close, and they all lurched off into the cover of the trees, holding each other’s sleeves. “What’s going on?”

“I - I don’t know,” Draco said, something hesitant and nervous crossing his face. “We should get out of here.”

“How?” Ron demanded. “We can’t find anyone!”

“I’ve got a Portkey home,” Draco said. “Don’t you?” Harry and Ron shook their heads. Draco looked briefly disgusted. “Ugh. What are your parents _doing_?”

“Uhm, they don’t treat us like giant babies, Malfoy,” Ron said, and Draco made a face at him.

“I - well, I suppose you can come back with me,” he said slowly, “then we’d all be safe,” and all three of them exchanged looks. Nobody’s parents, Harry thought, were going to be pleased. 

But he’d never been to Draco’s house. It felt very unfair. He wanted to see what the big deal was. “All right,” he said, and Draco grinned at them, quick and mischievous.

“Come on, then,” he said, and pulled a little velvet sack out of his pocket; he opened it and let a tarnished silver ladle drop to the forest floor. They all knelt around it. “On one - two - three--”

\---

Malfoy Manor was _awesome_.

“Come on,” Draco shouted over his shoulder, running ahead, and then they ended up in an attic with strange weird magical objects that threw up sparks, a tiny, spinning globe that loved them and kept trying to bounce behind them and lighting up, and a toaster that tried to _eat Harry_ \- “Probably ‘cos of your Muggle blood,” Draco explained matter-of-factly - and house elves kept appearing and giving them late night snacks like fancy ice cream that had six hundred flavours and changed from spoonful to spoonful and cheese toasties.

They found Draco’s old bicycle in the attic, too, with room for two people and so room for three if they squeezed in tight, Harry driving and Draco pressed up close against his back, clinging to Harry’s shoulders, and then Ron standing behind balanced on the little back pedals, and they went careening through shiny halls while portraits shouted at them to behave and then down the stairs so fast their teeth rattled.

Then Draco said, “If you like that, you should try the bannisters--” and they took turns sliding down them, yelping. Draco had years of practice, could go running light footed along the shiny polished wood as though it was a normal walkway, and Harry and Ron gazed up admiringly at him and then whooped and heckled, trying to spook him into falling.

Around three in the morning Narcissa came running into the great wide lobby that Malfoy Manor opened up into and called, “Draco? Draco?” and then, when all three of them popped their heads around the door, “Oh, thank Merlin. Thank - I’m so glad you’re all safe.”

“Where’d you go, Mum?” Draco came over and, looking a little embarrassed, submitted to her hug; but then she surprised Harry and Ron by throwing her arms around both of them, as well. Ron was turning red. Harry understood the feeling: Malfoy’s cool, calm mother, her hair in disarray and her eyes hot with emotion.

“I had to find your father,” she said vaguely, “oh, I’m very glad you’re safe. Are you quite all right? Have you eaten?”

Harry opened his mouth, and Ron stepped on his foot.

“Chocolate’s good for shock, Professor Lupin says,” he said boldly, and Draco looked immediately annoyed and then hopeful.

“Not that Professor Lupin knows anything,” Draco said, “but, uhm…”

Narcissa rolled her eyes and said, “Come along then, boys,” and led them into the dining room, where she poured them steaming hot chocolates from an enormous silver teapot. They tasted better than any Harry had ever had, even at Hogwarts: thick and rich and almost spicy. Draco waved over a little silver dish that came sliding across the table and added a sprinkling of salt; “It adds to the flavour,” he said, and when Harry was done laughing at Draco for being so inconceivably posh, he tried it out too, and Draco was right.

“Have you boys told your parents where you are, yet?” Narcissa asked them, and Harry and Ron exchanged guilty looks. She tutted. “ _Children_. Well - it’s very late. You should all go to bed now, and I’ll write to them and let them know. Draco, do you want to lead them to the guest suites?”

“Oh,” Draco said, looking crestfallen, “but, Mum--”

Narcissa looked fond and said, “Yes, fine,” and so all three of them ended up sleeping on mattresses on Draco’s bedroom floor. Draco could have slept in his bed, of course, but he said it was lonely and he’d be left out all the way up there, and Draco’s bedroom was enormous with plenty of floorspace for three mattresses pressed up close.

Draco’s ceiling lit up, constellations and silvery twisting meteorite belts chasing each other across a night sky, and Draco lay there talking them drowsily to sleep, repeating the stories about the stars his mother had told him.

It was the best sleepover ever. The next morning Harry came downstairs and found his and Ron’s parents sitting stiff-backed and furious on the embroidered sofas, while Lucius Malfoy - looking fairly exhausted himself - sneered at them from the opposite couch and Narcissa sat calmly talking about the weather. He and Ron were whisked away and told off and grounded for the rest of the summer _again_.

Still. It was worth it.

\---

Draco shouldered in between Harry and Hermione Granger, who gave him a cold look, propped his chin on Harry’s shoulder and murmured, “Well, this should be a laugh.”

Harry gave him an amused look. “You ought to be careful,” he said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, “she’ll pick on you next.”

“No, Weasley’s her next victim,” Draco said cheerfully. “He’s been staring blankly out the window and humming the Chudley Cannons team song for the last five minutes, he’s only got himself to blame.”

“Mr Weasley,” McGonagall said, “why don’t you come up here and help us all demonstrate how the Yule Ball waltz is done?”

Ron’s blank gaze switched over to horror and Harry stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing while Draco snickered in his ear.

Afterward, the three of them sloped out. “Could have _warned_ me, Malfoy, if you guessed it was going to happen,” Ron moaned. “Merlin, I had my _hand_ on her _waist_. McGonagall’s waist. Oh, hell. I’m never going to touch a girl ever. I’m never going to be able to disassociate it from her.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said slyly. “I think if a certain bushy-haired Muggleborn invited you to the Yule Ball you might _just_ be able to bring yourself—”

Ron elbowed him sharply. “Shut _up_ , she’s right there,” he hissed, looking desperate.

“She’s talking to Neville,” Harry said. “You’re fine.”

“Probably trying to preempt whatever’s going to try and kill them this year,” Draco said, looking remarkably unconcerned about the whole thing. “She’s got no chance. No one’s going to guess ‘dying of boredom while a Weasley fumblingly attempts to ask me out—‘”

“I really hate you,” Ron said feelingly.

“Easy enough to prove me wrong,” Draco said, with a winning smile, and Ron looked away, shoulders slumped.

“I’m going to ask her. I am. I’m just — working up to it. Plus that Krum’s always hanging round her—”

“I’ll ask Krum, if you like,” Draco said. “Get rid of the competition.”

“What?” Harry said.

Draco laughed. “Joking. I’m taking Pansy.”

“You’ve already sorted it out?” Ron said, disbelieving.

“It’s very easy, Weasley,” Draco drawled, “you just imagine that a girl is a person, and from there, you embark on a little thing I like to call _conversation_ —”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron mumbled, and went back to staring wistfully at Hermione’s retreating back.

“Hey,” Draco said, and nudged Harry. “When are _you_ going to ask Chang out?”

Harry flushed. “Soon. I’m working up to it.”

“Merlin,” Draco said. “You’re both hopeless. You know, you’re lucky to have a friend as debonaire and charming as me.”

Ron eyed him grumpily. “Why’s that?”

Draco checked his ridiculously expensive wristwatch and swore. “I’m late for Charms,” he said, setting off across the courtyard, and then called over his shoulder, “It’s _because_ when you two _idiots_ inevitably fail at getting dates, I can set you up with some Slytherin girls.”

Harry watched him go, grinning a little to himself. 

“I really blame you for him,” Ron said.

“I know you do,” Harry said.

\---

Daphne Greengrass was going to hex him pretty soon, Harry was sure. He didn’t blame her. He’d tried taking her out on the dancefloor, but he kept getting distracted looking at Cho, blushing and waltzing prettily in the circle of Cedric Diggory’s arms, and then he’d only felt worse when he looked over and saw Draco and Pansy having a grand old time, storming up and down the floor and nearly knocking several people in their way over.

Ron and Millie didn’t look like they were having a much better go of it, at least. Harry quite liked Millie, but she wasn’t Ron’s type at all; he suspected Draco had matched them up because of height. Ron kept trying to make jokes and Millie’s sense of humour was pure slapstick, as far as Harry could tell, and nothing else - she stared at him blankly, looking more and more bored as the night went on.

Harry glumly offered to get Daphne another glass of punch, because Draco had given them a long lecture about treating Slytherin girls well.

“That’s all right,” Daphne said, “I’ll get them,” and then she disappeared in the punch crowd and never came back. Harry didn’t really blame her.

Draco collapsed into a chair next to him, pink-faced and delighted. “You’re _so pathetic_ ,” he told Harry emphatically, and then, “I’m sure I’ve messed up my hair, have I?”

“You’re okay,” Harry said. It was kind of mussed, actually, but he liked it; it fell over Draco’s forehead, more wild than Draco usually let it get. It made Draco look older in a strange way, kind of rakish, his mouth crooking up in a smile.

“You’re a liar, Potter,” Draco said, stretching out with a contented sigh. “You’re just trying to one up me. But there’s no use. Everyone’s seen what a marvellous dancer I am, and you barely shuffled around the floor for two minutes.”

“I think that third year is still crying from where you accidentally knocked her over,” Harry pointed out.

“Shut up,” Draco said, and then, “you know, I think Millie and Weasley might hit it off after all. Maybe she can help him get over Granger.”

“You’re mad,” Harry said, “you have no judge of character at all.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Draco said. “I am friends with _you_.”

Harry grinned at him, and after a moment, shy and cautious, Draco smirked back.

They didn’t really talk about things explicitly most of the time. Draco was his best friend (a shared position with Ron, of course), and his best secret. Harry had mostly given up on trying to win his parents over; after the Rita Skeeter Ball Incident, he’d realised that they just had an enormous sore spot when it came to Malfoys. “His father’s son,” Lily had said, furious, “Harry - they don’t think we’re worth _anything_.” Harry had been upset and frantic and not sure what to do, and then he’d come to school and Draco had gotten him the Firebolt and been so excited about Harry’s reaction, he clearly _did_ think Harry was worth something.

So Harry had resigned himself to his parents just not understanding, and when he’d raised it with Draco, Draco only shrugged and drawled, “Yeah, mine aren’t so fond of you, either.” 

“It’s not - it doesn’t,” Harry had said, then swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter, right?”

Draco’s eyes were cool grey and very sure, and their shoulders had brushed. “No,” he’d said. “It doesn’t. Not at all.”

Now, Draco fanned at himself, and said, “Come on, I’ll take pity on you. I need some fresh air, anyway.”

“What?”

“Come _on_ ,” Draco said, and they went out to walk through the gardens, away from the noise and bustle of the Yule Ball.

Harry felt a little strange, walking next to Draco in the lit up garden, in their dress robes. He supposed it was thinking about his parents, and how little they’d approve of this friendship. Draco looked at him, mouth twisting, and then said abruptly, “I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“What?”

“Cho Chang,” Draco said. He half spat out the words, like they hurt him. “Diggory’s cool and all - and the Hogwarts Champion but it’s - he’s too old for her, probably.”

“Oh, ‘cos girls _hate_ older guys,” Harry said.

“Well,” Draco said. “He’s not as good as you.”

Harry shrugged. “You have to say that. You’re my mate.”

“Right,” Draco said. “You’re right,” and he looked away again, lips pressed tight together.

“Thanks, though,” Harry said, after a moment.

“Oh, Potter,” Draco said. Their elbows knocked. “Any time.”

**FIFTH YEAR**

Draco was strange to him on the Hogwarts Express that year.

It had been an awful summer. They hadn’t written to each other as much as usual. Harry was still reeling from Diggory’s death, and then he’d gotten home and found out from his parents that the strange things Neville had been shouting about when he got back were apparently true, that the Dark Lord had risen, that things were about to get very bad, very strange.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he told his parents, desperate, and they exchanged glances and said, “Harry, don’t worry. Hogwarts is still the safest place,” and then they got called away to another Order meeting and Harry couldn’t tell them that he was worried about them, not himself.

He was all too conscious, though, that _Death Eater_ suddenly meant something again, the way it hadn’t in fifteen years. It had been an old war, old enemies, old prejudices; he’d been able to write it off. But when he got on the train that year and found Draco staring at him in the corridor, he knew that he couldn’t anymore, and from the way Draco was looking at him, he knew Draco knew that, too.

And Draco was taller; taller than Harry, Harry realised with a weird jolt in his chest. His eyes seemed greyer than normal. He’d stopped slicking his hair back at all over the summer; it fell carelessly, loosely over his face. Harry felt suddenly, bizarrely, as though he’d missed Draco more than normal, as though he wanted to go up and hold onto Draco just to prove that he was there again. Old enemies, old fights, and why should Harry care when Draco was there, looking like that, watching him with that strange blend of anxiety and surety?

Instead he walked up and knocked his shoulder against Draco’s. Draco smiled, quick and bright, and Harry felt immediately better.

“We’re much too young to be invested in politics yet anyway,” Draco told him, and relieved, they set off to find Ron.

\---

Umbridge changed all of that, of course.

Harry couldn’t stand her from the start. Then she picked on Neville who was still shellshocked and trembling and furious from everything that had happened at the end of last year, of _course_ Harry had to stick up for him, and then there’d been detention and the quill and between one thing and another he hadn’t managed to find Draco until after that, his hand still smarting, her gloating wide face still floating in front of his eyes.

He found Draco and Draco grabbed his wrist and said, delighted, “She’s _brilliant_ , isn’t she? She pulled me aside after class, said I showed great promise and that she knew Father and any offspring of his was a friend of hers — apparently she’s thinking about creating a little group of student Ministry reps, we should see if we could join—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry said coldly.

Draco blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“She’s a toad,” Harry said. “She doesn’t believe Longbottom. She’s punishing everyone. She’s not teaching us any real magic, and You-Know-Who is _back_! How are we going to fight him like this?”

Draco was very quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Longbottom’s always running his mouth. It’s nice that at least one teacher isn’t going to give him special treatment—”

It was the worst fight they’d had since first year, and they’d had a lot. Harry ended up storming away furious, and then a week of not talking turned into two, into three, into two months, and Ron looked a bit nervous but didn’t say anything, and Draco started hanging out with Zabini and that lot and pointedly ignoring Harry, and Harry had never been so angry in his life.

When Hermione and Neville brought the idea of the DA to them, Ron darted a hesitant look at Harry and said, “Draco Malfoy might want in—”

“No,” Harry said immediately. “He’s one of Umbridge’s. There’s no use in him.”

\---

The next time they spoke was outside Madame Puddifoot’s, in the rain, with Harry trying to understand exactly what had gone wrong with Cho now. It was typical, just _typical_ of Draco to approach him in a situation like that. Very Slytherin. Very Malfoy. Harry’s parents had been right all along.

Draco tossed his head and looked scornful as he and his gang of Slytherins swaggered up the street. “Your girl doesn’t look very happy, Potter,” he said scornfully. “What, aren’t the rumours about Gryffindors true?”

All the Slytherins sniggered. Harry glared. “Shove off, Malfoy,” he said. “No one wants to talk to you.”

Elaborately, lazily, Draco flipped him off and walked on past, as if Harry’s terrible afternoon wasn’t worth his attention.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Harry told Cho angrily. She was crying _again_ , but she looked like she’d punch him if he tried to awkwardly comfort her this time. “It’s - I told you I was meeting my parents--”

“Yes, run off to your parents!” Cho said. “Wouldn’t want to introduce them to me, would you! Honestly, Harry Potter, you’re one of the most insensitive people I’ve ever--”

“They’re just my mum and dad,” Harry said, bewildered. “Why would you want to meet them?”

Cho gaped at him for a moment and then, in a stunningly good imitation of Malfoy, flipped him off and swung around on her heel to run away.

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, scowling. “Right then,” he said. “Course.”

He sloshed his way through the puddles to the Three Broomsticks; by the time he got there, he was feeling decidedly sorry for himself, and not particularly in the mood to hang out with his parents.

“Harry!” his mum said when he arrived, standing up to hug him. Harry submitted grumpily, and batted away James’s hand when he reached to ruffle Harry’s hair.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled.

“Not a good time?” James looked amused. “Here,” and he passed a butterbeer over. It warmed Harry’s insides, but only a little.

“Fine,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “How are you guys?”

His parents exchanged smiling looks that Harry did not appreciate at all, and entered into a very bright conversation about various antics with Lily’s sister and her husband Horrible Vernon and Sirius’s latest ridiculous motorbike accident, while Hary drank one butterbeer and then another and then started to wonder whether he was hungry enough for them to buy him a second lunch.

Then, just when he was starting to feel better, Draco showed up and started _dripping_ on him.

“Oh, hello,” Lily said, looking up with a guarded expression. 

“Potter, you are the worst,” Draco announced, sounding a little breathless. He was all bright and vivid from the rain, hair falling over his eyes. “Did you really break up with Chang to hang out with your _parents_?”

“What’s this?” James said. “Chang? Cho Chang? You’re dating Cho now?”

“Clearly not, he’s broken up with her,” Lily said, eyes bright. “ _Harry_. You haven’t told us anything!”

“Malfoy,” Harry gritted out, “what are you--”

“I’m so sorry, I’m being terribly rude,” Draco said, in his smoothest, poshest voice, and leaned across the table, hand outstretched. “It’s lovely to meet you properly. I’m Draco Malfoy.”

Harry gaped. After a moment, James and Lily warily shook Draco’s hand.

Harry very much regretted not telling them about the massive fall out he and Draco had had. He hadn’t wanted to give them something to be smug about, that’s all, and it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about Draco to them much. It was all backfiring on him now.

Draco swung into the seat next to Harry, as if they hadn’t spent the last six months ignoring each other. For a horrible moment, Harry wanted to lean into his shoulder like normal.

“Up at Hogsmeade for the afternoon?” Draco said, still smarmy. “You’ve picked a bad day for it. This weather is awful.”

Harry pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes, in the hope that when he could see again Draco Malfoy would no longer be talking to Harry’s parents about the weather.

No such luck. “You’ve clearly been outside,” James said, watching Draco very carefully. “Maybe it’s not too bad.”

“Oh, no, I’ve just been putting out fires everywhere,” Draco said, giving his tie a stupid little adjustment quirk. “I’m a prefect, you see, it’s my responsibility.”

“Harry doesn’t seem to see his duties that way,” Lily said, lips quirking.

Draco leaned confidingly across the table. “Harry,” he said, “has - I hope you don’t mind me telling you - somewhat of a conflicting approach to most authority.”

Lily burst out laughing, and even James smiled reluctantly. They were both traitors. Harry glared and said, “Malfoy _loves_ authority. He’s all over Umbridge.”

Draco shrugged. “My mother says Umbridge is very high in the Ministry right now, and there’s no need to make powerful enemies when you could go unnoticed,” he said. “She says that Umbridge will look for any excuse to turf out those who turn against her, and that it’s better to be quiet, and make sure there are people who will oppose her when we need to.”

Lily hesitated, then said, “Your mum might be right. Harry, I’ve been meaning to--”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry said loudly. “By ‘oppose her’, he means his parents are Death Eaters and Umbridge is a troll but still part of the Ministry--”

“Volume, Harry,” James said sharply, with a quick look about. “Though it’s nice to hear you finally agreeing with us, at last.”

“Yes, Harry, _volume_ ,” Draco said, and then had the temerity to _wink_ at James. “Anyway, I’m far too young to be going into politics. I want to have a legal drink before I hand my soul over to any kind of dark wizard.”

Looking unwilling, James laughed.

“ _Dad_ ,” Harry said.

“James,” Lily said, shaking her head ruefully.

“I can’t help it,” James said, “he reminds me of--”

“I know,” Lily said.

“Frightfully sorry,” Draco drawled, “but I don’t think I can remind you of anyone - I’m quite singular, see, very impressive,” and they laughed _again_. They _kept_ laughing, as Draco rattled on, blithe and charming like he and Harry were best friends still. Draco kept leaning warmly against Harry’s side, smelling like rain and expensive cologne and - and - Harry was furious.

Eventually, nearly spitting with anger, Harry stood up and said, “I should be going back to school.”

Lily was smiling crookedly. “So soon?”

“Bye,” Harry said, and gave them both awkward hugs, before he grabbed his bag and half-ran out of the Three Broomsticks. It had stopped raining, at least; the town had that dewy look of a just cleared up storm, the clouds slowly rolling away, patches of ragged blue and sunlight glinting off wet grass.

He was only just out of Hogsmeade when Draco caught up, yelling after him: “Hey! _Hey_!”

Harry kept walking, fists clenched. “Fuck off.”

“What!” Draco ran after him, caught up with him at last.

“What d’you want,” Harry said, flat.

“Why are you being such a prick?”

“Why are you pretending like we haven’t been on opposite sides all year?” Harry demanded. “What was that whole - performance about?”

“What?” Draco was all bright-eyed, cheeks flushed. “I haven’t really met your parents before. Just because _you’re_ a berk doesn’t mean I want to give a bad impression.”

“They already hate you,” Harry said roughly. “Shove off, all right? I don’t get what you think’s changed--”

“Yes, Potter, your moral outrage is inspiring as ever,” Draco said. “Hey, why’d you break up with Chang?”

Harry stopped in his path and stared at Draco. “I can’t believe you.”

“What!”

“You’re awful,” Harry told him. “No wonder you’re in Slytherin. Fine, follow me around and sneer at me - I never trusted you--”

“You’re lying,” Draco said, eyes glittering. “Why--”

“I dunno! She dumped me! It was a terrible date anyway!” Harry yelled. “What do you _want_ from me?”

Draco seized Harry by the robes. For a moment Harry thought Draco was going to punch him; his face screwed up, steeling for it, and then Draco’s mouth was on his, cool and firm. Harry froze. Draco’s hands clenched in Harry’s robes, pulled him in, and he tasted like the froth off Harry’s butterbeer. Harry was suddenly shivering. He hadn’t felt Draco’s height this much before, hadn’t noticed it so strongly. It was impossible not to notice now, with Draco curved down around him, Draco’s hair brushing against Harry’s eyes, Draco’s mouth sweet and wanting, pressing against Harry. Harry was kissing back; he hadn’t noticed and then he did, and his whole body surged up against Draco’s suddenly, grabbing at his shoulders, almost shivering.

They broke apart, panting. Harry didn’t know where to look. Draco looked shellshocked; reached up and touched his own mouth with long fingers.

“I,” he said, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“No?” Harry said blankly. “I - why did you, then?”

“I don’t know!” Draco shook his head, starting to look a little hysterical. “You surprised me! Why did _you_?”

“I didn’t,” Harry said immediately, and then, when Draco opened his mouth in outrage, he hastened and cut over him, said: “Okay, I - I don’t know. _You_ surprised _me_!”

“Well,” Draco said, and turned away, hands in his pockets. “Well. I don’t know.”

After a moment, despite himself, Harry laughed, short and nervous. “I’m getting that.”

“Shut up,” Draco said, but he was biting his lip on a smile. “You’re the one who - who got dumped after one date. What happened?”

“It was awful,” Harry said. His heart felt strange, suddenly thrumming. He’d missed Draco, he thought, had been consumed with fury and loneliness, and this felt - it already felt so much better. He’d missed Draco _talking_ to him.

His mouth felt warm, too.

Draco blinked, waiting, and Harry felt his cheeks flush. “It was - really bad. She kept crying about Cedric. And getting cross at me for not taking her to lunch with my parents. Why would she want to do that? Parents are boring.”

“She probably wanted you to introduce her,” Draco said. “You know, as your _girlfriend_. You idiot.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I didn’t think of that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know. You’re useless with women. You’re lucky to have me around.”

“Er,” Harry said, because that felt like a strange thing to say after they had just - just - and Draco stared back at him, derision falling off his face, eyes widening. They stared at each other for a moment, and Harry could feel his breathing picking up, and he wanted to touch Draco so badly he was almost trembling with it. 

“Right,” Draco said, faint, as though Harry had said something. “Well, I should - get - get back -- lots to do, you know--”

“Draco,” Harry said, and they moved forward together, Harry sliding his hand up around the back of Draco’s neck, dragging his face down, Draco’s long fingers cradling Harry’s jaw, tilting him up to Draco’s mouth. Already this felt different from Cho, too different, overwhelmingly so. Harry couldn’t think about the weather or what Draco was or wasn’t thinking or even what he, Harry, thought about all of this - all he could feel, all he could notice, was Draco’s mouth, slow and hesitant on his, the way it was sending juddering little sparks of heat all the way up Harry’s spine.

They broke apart but this time didn’t go far, foreheads resting together, Draco’s eyes closed. Harry thought it might be weird to keep his own eyes open, but he couldn’t stop looking; the sharp, aristocratic planes of Draco’s face abruptly brought into new light, the long lines of his eyelashes. Draco’s eyelashes were obscenely long, for a boy’s. Harry couldn’t stop staring.

“I,” Draco said, quiet, and then stopped. Harry wanted to kiss him again, and after a moment he did. He couldn’t believe he’d thought anything else was kissing; the awful wet moment with Cho under the mistletoe, Spin The Bottle that one time with Hermione Granger’s matter-of-fact peck and Ron choking in fury nearby. This was kissing, he thought, Draco’s hungry mouth and firm grip, nothing else. Harry wanted to spend the rest of his life doing it. He wondered, vaguely, if this meant he was into guys.

Draco opened his eyes and took a step backward, looking nervous again. Harry didn’t want that, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, which was: “I hate not talking to you.”

It was the right thing to say; Draco’s face flooded with relief. “Yeah,” he said. “I - yeah. It’s been awful.”

“This is - good idea,” Harry said.

“What?” Draco said, getting all demanding and over the top, the way he was when he was starting to feel pleased with himself. “Are you _congratulating_ me for kissing you, Potter? You truly are the worst.”

“I’m - well, I kissed you back,” Harry said, and Draco said, “Yes, I’m aware,” and they both stood there looking stupidly at each other for a moment. Harry had an awful feeling he was grinning, that big horrible goofy one he got when he couldn’t help it.

“You look like an idiot, Potter,” Draco said, but he was smiling, too.

“Whatever,” Harry said, and scrubbed his sleeve shyly across his mouth. “So -- you want to walk back to Hogwarts? There’s a DA meeting tonight, you should come.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I mean,” Harry said, “you’re going to have to quit the stupid Inquisatorial Squad now--”

“Why don’t _you_ quit the DA?”

“What?” Harry stared. “Because - because the DA’s the right thing to do--”

“Why is everything _you_ do always the right thing?” Draco snapped. Harry didn’t understand how this had changed so quickly, Draco standing stiffly, the space between them gaping where before it had been charged. “Why am I always the one who has to compromise? Be a good Slytherin, be nice to fucking Longbottom--”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, still in disbelief, “are you _pissed_ at me for not letting you be a bully?”

“Hey,” Draco said, lip curling, “you don’t _let_ me do anything, actually, Potter. You don’t get to control the whole world, much as I know you _love_ to think it revolves around you - perfect Potter, with his perfect little _gang_ , and Dumbledore fawning all over you--”

Harry blinked. “What are you talking about? I’ve barely spoken to Professor Dumbledore in my life.”

“I--” Draco’s eyes went unfocused for a moment, and then he shook his head and glared at Harry. “Whatever! You’re so fucking full of yourself, is my point--”

“You know what, Malfoy,” Harry said, “why don’t you just go running back to Umbridge? No one here _needs_ you.”

“Go to hell,” Draco snarled.

“You first,” Harry said, and stormed off in the direction of the castle.

\---

If anything, he hated Draco more after that.

It was just like a Slytherin, to try and - use that stuff against him, Harry’s own dumb body which didn’t, apparently, get the difference between right and wrong. And then go back to being a complete bastard, except worse, because now it felt like Draco was actively hunting down the DA down, appearing flushed and triumphant every time the Inquisatorial Squad ruined a meeting, trying to bring Umbridge down on all their heads. By the time he managed to drive Dumbledore away, Harry was sure he would hate him forever, that this was it, and he wrote long, impassioned letters to his parents telling them so.

If they’d spent the first half of the year ignoring each other, now Harry couldn’t escape from Draco; he appeared with his eyes glittering and his mouth curling into a sneer every time Harry even thought about breaking one of Umbridge’s stupid rules. Harry was glad every time, and he always made Malfoy pay for it; he ended up in detention more that term than any other, the two of them scuffling and fighting nearly every second day. Half the time they didn’t even use their wands, resorting to fists and shoving, panting and twisting and trying to get a good hold of each other.

Ron said, looking worried, “Mate, it’s - it’s gotten a bit bad, maybe you should ease up a bit,” but that just made Harry more furious, because now there were all these _secrets_ that he couldn’t tell Ron, and they were Draco’s fault as well. He hated everything that their friendship had become: mean and unfair and bound up in Harry having to lie to people. He should have listened to his parents from the beginning. He should have known Malfoys couldn’t be trusted.

Only then Neville fell out of his chair twitching in their History of Magic exam, and when he woke up he was babbling about his grandmother being in danger, and the Department of Mysteries, and how they had to go at once, all of them, the DA; and then Umbridge got hold of them, and had them in her office, and was going to _torture_ them maybe--

Hermione burst into loud, clearly fraudelent tears, and she and Neville managed to trick Umbridge into going off with them, but that meant Harry and Ron and Luna and Ginny were still stuck with the Inquisatorial Squad pointing their wands at them and no way to escape, and Harry - he couldn’t, he couldn’t just pretend--

“Draco, _please_ ,” he said, and Draco’s wand hand twitched.

“Shut up, Potter,” he said.

“We don’t know what’s going on,” Harry blurted out, “and Neville thinks his grandmother is in danger, and - and she’s all the family he has left, I _know_ you don’t like him, but--”

“Shut up!” Draco said.

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry said, and took a wary step forward. Ron was eyeing them both hopefully and Ginny looked furious, her hand sneaking towards her wand. Draco’s hand was outstretched and shaking. Harry said, “Please. I’m sorry. _Please_ , I’ll - I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, just--”

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco said, “ _stupefy_!” and it took Harry a moment to realise that he’d turrned his wand on Blaise Zabini.

Ginny and Ron luckily moved at the same time, dispatching Crabbe and Goyle with two well-aimed hexes, and Harry himself brought down Millie with an apologetic, desperate _Petrificus totalus_ , and said, “Sorry, Mill, I’ll make it up to you, I swear!”

After that it was just Draco, pale-faced and a bit frantic about the eyes, and he said, furious, “What, then?”

“Death Eaters,” Harry said, “at the Ministry.”

Draco swallowed hard and said, “Okay. Come on, let’s go,” and all five of them broke into a run, pounding down the stairs and out of the castle and eventually running into a white-faced Hermione and Neville on the edge of the forest; and then Luna summoned the thestrals.

Draco shook his head, backing away nervously. “No,” he said, “oh, no, I am not getting on an invisible horse.” 

“Good,” Harry said, “it’s going to be dangerous.” 

Draco glared at him. “I’m not leaving you, either!”

Harry swallowed hard. His cheeks felt warm. The others were staring at them, confused. “Well,” he said. “Um. You can share with me. I can see them, and I won’t let you fall.”

Draco suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes, but after a moment he said, “Yeah, fine,” and they all climbed up. Harry put Draco behind him, and Draco gasped at the feeling of the solid beast beneath him, clung to Harry’s waist. Harry felt hot all over now, but he tried to ignore it, following Neville’s lead and spurring his thestral up into the sky.

As Hogwarts fell away underneath them, Draco said, sounding confused, “How can you see the thestrals?”

“Uhm,” Harry said, “well - I - I guess--”

“This way,” Neville called, pointing his thestral south, and they all fell into line, gathering so much speed that it was impossible to talk.

\---

The Ministry was terrifying: dangerous and adult in a way Harry felt he couldn’t understand. For some reason the long lines of shelves with their prophecies brought some unspoken dread and anguish out of him; he felt sure that something terrible had already happened, though he couldn’t think what. The rest of their ragtag group didn’t look much better, pale-faced and shivery, Neville sweating slightly, all of them edging along until at last, at last, Neville reached out and took the prophecy they wanted off the shelf.

“Ah, finally,” said a cool, clear, memorable voice. “Thank you, Mr Longbottom.”

“What,” Harry said, turning around, and Draco raised his head and said, “ _Dad_?” but then the first curse was fired and they were all running.

Harry grabbed Draco’s arm, dragging him down as a couple of _crucios_ bounced over their heads - Unforgivables, Harry thought numbly, they were using Unforgivables, surely he should be more surprised by that - and then they both had to drag Ron back from a tank of brains, not quite in time, ripping the tentacles off him and trying to heal the worst of the burns while Neville and Hermione barricaded the door and Luna clutched the prophecy desperately. Harry demanded, “Was that your father?”

“I don’t know!” Draco looked desperate, frightened. “I don’t know! I thought maybe, but he was - he was - the spells were pointed at me, too--”

“But you’re with us!” Harry said. His heart skipped a beat. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Draco repeated, agonised, and he reached out for Harry’s sleeve and hid his face against Harry’s shoulder, Ron still sprawled across their knees and gasping. Harry wanted to pull Draco in close against him and not ever let him go, but the barricade across the door was giving and he could hear the high, cold laughter of Bellatrix Lestrange and there was something like murder in Neville’s eyes.

Maybe Draco didn’t know, but he ran with Harry all the same, and Harry counted three times that he thought Draco might have saved him. Together they had to keep Ron - sagging and gasping - upright between them, and Neville was desperately looking for his grandmother and then - then - _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was there_ , and someone was screaming in Harry’s head, high, _not Harry, please, take me, instead--_

Draco fell heavily to his knees beside Harry; Harry hadn’t even realised he wasn’t upright anymore. “Please,” Draco said, nearly sobbing, tugging at Harry’s arm, trying to pull him up, “Harry, please, we have to go, _please_ \--” and they were both up and scrambling out the way. Ron was draped over Hermione’s shoulders and Luna was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange and Neville and You-Know-Who were circling each other, the one grim-faced, the other laughing, wand jumping with magic.

“This isn’t right,” Harry gasped, “Neville can’t, he can’t manage it.”

“You can’t manage it either!” Draco said. “We’ve got to get _help_ ,” and as though he’d summoned them, the Order of the Phoenix burst in.

It was fast and awful, and Harry’s parents were there and Sirius and Remus, too, but everything felt better, knowing they weren’t alone. Harry and Draco hid with Hermione and Ron behind one of the golden statues, and Neville cried out when Dumbledore appeared and it was pretty much over then. Harry had one arm around Ron and the other around Draco and Ron was holding Hermione’s hand, trembling, and Draco’s face was white with terror. Harry wanted them all out of there, wanted his mum to come and touch his shoulder and let him know that it was done, that she’d taken care of it, and that all of them could come home and have sandwiches and soup; then he wanted to sleep for days, preferably with Draco there, too, in his bed, so Harry could make sure he didn’t run off again. He wasn’t examining that thought too closely.

What he got was the statue shattering, the force of it sending them all sprawling apart, and Lucius Malfoy standing over him, mask hanging askew, eyes dark with fury. Lucius pointed his wand and said, “ _Avada_ \--”

“ _Dad_ ,” Draco all but yelped, and threw himself over Harry, and Lucius only just jerked his wand up in time; the jet of green light went richoting across the room and smashed something that made a high-pitched shrill noise, lights flashing.

“Get up, Draco,” Lucius snarled, “I’ll deal with you when I’m home--” and Draco shuddered all over and nearly clung to Harry, said, “No, Father, listen, please--”

“You stay away from my son,” a cool voice said. “ _Stupefy_!” 

Lucius Malfoy went crumpling to the ground. When Harry looked up his mother’s face was hard and sure, and she put her hand on his hair just the way he’d wanted and said, quiet, “It’s over, Harry. It’s done.”

Draco was still shivering. His face looked wet. He raised it, stared at Lily.

Lily Potter stared back at him. After a moment, she said, “Thank you, Draco. I owe you a great deal.”

“What did you do to my father?” he asked, voice trembling.

“He’s just unconscious,” she said, but Draco went scrambling to his father’s side; he knelt by him and said, “Father - _Dad_ ,” and shook his shoulders, and pointed his wand. “ _Ener_ \--”

But Dumbledore was there, stopping him. “I can’t let you do that, Draco,” he said kindly, and Draco looked up.

“What,” Draco said, looking wild-eyed, “what, what,” and there were more Aurors, appearing all around now. Some of them held Draco back while others levitated his dad, and all the other captured Death Eaters, taking them away while Draco yelled and struggled. 

“ _Father_!” he bellowed. “Father! No! Bring him back--”

“Draco,” Harry said, alarmed, reaching out to touch him, and Draco turned around and swung a fist at him; it connected with Harry’s stomach, not particularly hard but enough to send him stumbling back.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Draco said. His face was drawn and thin, like he’d aged five years in an hour. “What have you done? Dad!”

Harry’s parents took him home that night, just like he’d wanted, but not Draco. He had to go back to Hogwarts the next day, and Draco was there, too. He looked ashen, horrified. When Harry walked up to him, Draco stared at him like he couldn’t see Harry, like he didn’t know who Harry was.

“Draco,” Harry said, and put his hand on Draco’s wrist, and Draco seemed to realise where he was and who Harry was and he recoiled, eyes black with hatred.

“Stay away from me, Potter,” he said. 

“Look,” Harry said, slow, “I know it’s - it’s shit. But you can’t - what your dad did--”

“He’s my _dad_ ,” Draco hissed. “And - and you’re _dead_.”

Then he turned and walked away, Crabbe and Goyle at his back, tall and untouchable, and Harry knew, abruptly, that Draco had been wrong at the beginning of this long, terrible year: that they weren’t too young for politics, and that they would never be too young again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There was another rattle - more of a thump, this time, and instinctively Harry turned and looked toward the window, then froze. Draco Malfoy stared back at him, blurry and indistinct through the rain-streaked glass, then raised a hand and knocked again.

**SIXTH YEAR**

Harry didn’t sleep much that summer.

He couldn’t stop dreaming about what a close call it had been at the Ministry. It would have been so easy for one of them to die: his mum, his dad, Sirius. Ron, Hermione. Or him, or - the green light glowing on Lucius Malfoy’s wand, the way Draco had thrown himself across Harry. If Lucius hadn’t been able to jerk his wand away in time. If Draco had moved a split second later.

 _You’re dead_ , Draco had said, and Harry woke up shivering.

Instead of sleeping he wandered through the house, late at night when his parents were asleep. He read the papers bleakly. He wrote letters. He even wrote letters to Draco for a while, but after June went by and nothing came back, he eventually gave up.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lily said, and for the first time she looked like she meant it. “I know this is hard for you.”

“I don’t get why he - why he,” Harry said, and couldn’t finish talking. His throat felt tight, awful.

“It’s hard,” James said. “It’s hard for some kids to pick. You should - talk to Sirius,” and Harry did, a bit, Sirius exlaining what it was like, to grow up in a house with things expected and the sure promise that if you did what you were told, you would be loved like nothing else, treasured, _privileged_. Harry understood it; he did. He understood it all. But he stared bleakly at them and thought about Draco kissing him that day in Hogsmeade, Draco’s hand tight and desperate on his arm at the Ministry, dragging him along, out of danger. It wasn’t fair, he thought. 

He spent a lot of the summer sitting around with Ron and Hermione and Neville, staring blankly at each other while the news got worse and worse and worse, trying to formulate some sort of game plan for the year. Everything seemed hopeless. Neville looked like he hadn’t slept in months.

And then, in Diagon Alley, he saw Draco again for the first time - desperate and untouchable with his mother, flinching away from Harry calling out. Harry followed him in his father’s Invisibility Cloak and saw him poking around Borgin and Burkes, and finally, giving up on subtlety, he unveiled himself and caught Draco on his way out, said, “Draco, what are you _doing_ ,” and Draco threw him aside.

“Mother,” Draco said, not even looking at Harry, trembling, “let’s go, please,” and Narcissa’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment before the two of them swept away, arms linked tightly.

Harry went back to his own mum and was so furious he nearly cried. “He’s up to something,” he said, “I - I know it.”

“Harry,” his mum said, quiet, “he’s a sixteen year old boy. I know his family has - connections we’re concerned about, but even You-Know-Who is not so desperate at this point that he’s recruiting teenagers--”

“But - you don’t understand,” Harry said, “you don’t understand what Draco’s like about people he loves, he’s _crazy_ , he’ll - he’ll do anything to get his dad back. We need to stop him! We need to send Aurors to Malfoy Manor!”

“We’re in a war, Harry,” James said, and touched Harry’s hair to soften the blow. “There’s already been three teams of aurors sent to Malfoy Manor. Two wizards have been killed.”

Harry froze. He stared up at him. “I - really?”

“Skirmishes on the border, nothing that can be pinned directly on the Malfoys,” Lily murmured. “But the Ministry’s in a precarious position. They’re not even uninviting Narcissa from Ministry functions yet, it’s as though everything’s on standby. We don’t know who’s going to emerge with power in the next few months. All we can do is try our very best.”

“But Draco--”

“Is not a priority,” James said, shaking his head. “Not with the Lestranges and Greyback and his crew on the loose again -- Harry, better if you just leave him be.”

But Harry couldn’t leave Draco be. He made plans with Hermione, Neville, and Ron to keep an eye on Draco once they all got to school, to make sure he was under control, though they eyed him dubiously and were not, Harry thought, particularly invested in the cause. Harry stole the Maurader’s Map from where James didn’t know Harry knew he kept it hidden, and he packed it tightly with the Invisibility Cloak at the bottom of his school trunk, and waited. 

In the end, though, he didn’t have to wait as long as he’d planned; when his parents dragged him out to another Ministry Ball -- with his own achkan this time, at least -- he’d only been in the room for a bare ten minutes before he caught a glimpse of blond hair and felt his whole world narrow down to the thin marble swathe of the room that contained the two Malfoys.

“Back in a minute,” he said grimly to his mum, and ignored her worried murmur as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

“Draco,” he said, and Draco flinched away from him. He looked thin and worn, deep shadows under his eyes. His black dress robes were buttoned tight around his chin, made him look sallow and unwell.

“Potter,” he sneered. “They’re letting just anyone in, are they?”

Narcissa’s hand was on Draco’s shoulder; Harry thought her fingers might be trembling. “Draco,” she said, low, “don’t cause a scene -- let’s--”

“Yeah, Draco,” Harry said, a weird hot spike of satisfaction in his stomach when Draco’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you just, er, come with me and have a chat?”

Draco stared at him, incredulous. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he said, and to Harry’s horror, he could feel himself going a slow, dull red.

“ _Well_ ,” said a very unwelcome voice, “isn’t _this_ a lovely little reunion.”

Harry looked, unwillingly, to the left, to where Rita Skeeter was wearing emerald green robes and clasping her hands under her chin, beaming. 

“How _lovely_ that you two boys are still such good friends,” she said, “even with all the -- well -- unpleasantness of late! You know, that story about the two of you when you were children was one of my biggest ever scoops. I was promoted to the _Daily Prophet_ ’s Premiere Party Presenter as a result of it, you know.”

“How wonderful,” Narcissa said, in a steady voice.

“I don’t suppose -- it would be very lovely if we could reprise it,” Rita said. “How about it, boys, just a little waltz? There’s so many nasty _rumours_ around, I’m sure a Potter and Malfoy dancing would go a long way to dispelling it--”

“Uh,” Harry said, horrified. “I don’t think I,” and then he stopped, swallowed. A waltz with Draco, and the press watching, and no way Draco could run away from him. “I mean,” he said, praying he wasn’t blushing again and glumly certain that he was, staring at the floor, “if you want to?”

When he dared glance up, Draco was sneering. “I think _not_ ,” he began, except as Harry watched Narcissa’s hand tightened on Draco’s shoulder. Draco went paler if possible, and then said, rigid, barely moving his lips, “Fine.”

Rita Skeeter clapped her hands. “ _Wonderful_ ,” she said, and shoved Harry in towards Draco. “Well, you just get started and I’ll grab our photographer… pretend we’re not even here, darlings…”

Harry took Draco’s hand clumsily. Draco snatched it away immediately, and then, with another nervous at his mother, plucked at Harry’s sleeve between a thumb and forefinger as though he could hardly bear to touch Harry properly, and drew him over to where other people were dancing.

“I’ll get you for this, Potter,” Draco hissed, and Harry swallowed hard.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, and tried not to jump when Draco put his hand on Harry’s waist. “I just wanted to talk to you--”

“I am _not_ talking to you,” Draco snapped. “Put your hand on my shoulder, you horrible lump.”

Harry did what he was told, and hoped his palm wasn’t sweaty when Draco snatched that up with his other hand. They started off, a little awkward; Harry kept half-stumbling.

“Follow me,” Draco said, sounding frustrated. “We’re only doing this for the cameras, you may as well make it look good.”

Harry felt stupidly, obliquely miserable, but he tried to do what Draco was instructing, tried to follow his lead. He remembered a twelve year old Draco, cheerful and enjoying himself, half-singing instructions in Harry’s ear. _Step-step-step, step-step-step, watch my toes, Harry!_ Harry drew in a breath, looked up at Draco, and said, “I’m worried about you.”

“How good of you,” Draco said immediately, clearly struggling to keep his face pleasant and blank. “I hope you choke and die in your sleep.”

“Draco--”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’re my best friend,” Harry said helplessly.

Draco gave him a dismissive look. “We’ve barely spoken in a year.”

“We were fighting,” Harry said, twisting around Draco, trying not to trip over their feet, “you drive me mad, you -- look, that doesn’t mean I don’t, don’t care about you!”

Draco went a slow, deliberate pink. Harry stared at him.

“Shut up,” Draco said, voice tight and tense. “You got my father _locked up_.”

“Your father tried to kill me!” Harry said, and turned under the arm that Draco held up for him.

“Keep your voice down,” Draco hissed. “I’m only doing this because it will make my mother look good -- do you _know_ how hard it was for her to maintain a place at Ministry events--”

“My parents say that something bad is going on,” Harry told him grimly. “That the Ministry might be corrupted. That it’s all very uncertain right now. And that -- that terrible things are happening at Malfoy Manor.”

Draco laughed, harsh and cracked down the middle, and looked for a moment desperately young.

“Draco,” Harry said, “please--”

The violins swept to an elegant close, and Draco dropped Harry’s hand like it was a burning coal.

“Bye, Potter,” he snapped. “I’d watch your back, if I were you,” and then he turned and swept away, swallowed up by the crowd while Rita Skeeter cooed and applauded.

Harry turned and went, miserable, back to his parents.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lily said, and clasped him in a hug.

“You’re going to be okay,” James said, touching his hair.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and tried not to think about whether Draco would be. He spent the rest of the summer trying, and mostly failing, not to think of Draco at all, until he felt sick with not being able to talk to Draco the way he wanted and was counting down the days until Hogwarts, until the chance of seeing Draco again. It was hard to enjoy anything. He wasn’t even looking forward to his birthday.

\---

On the 29th of July, around two-thirty in the morning, Harry sat in his room staring tiredly at one of the Transfigurations texts he was meant to have read in the summer holidays. He was halfway through the first chapter and having trouble focusing. He rubbed his eyes, stared at the text again. He felt stupid with it, and hopeless.

It was raining outside. Every now and then lightning flashed across the sky, following the deep rumble of thunder. Sometimes if Harry didn’t pay attention, he found himself idly counting the seconds between them, the way his mum had taught him when he was a kid.

The thunder rattled his windowframe. Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaned in closer to the text. The words looked like blurry ants crawling across the page.

There was another rattle - more of a thump, this time, and instinctively Harry turned and looked toward the window, then froze. Draco Malfoy stared back at him, blurry and indistinct through the rain-streaked glass, then raised a hand and knocked again.

Harry tumbled across the room. He threw the window open and Draco and a great deal of the rain fell in, Draco stumbling off his broom and the rain sweeping across Harry’s bed. Harry caught Draco with an arm around his waist and shoved the window shut, and Draco dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder, wet and shivering in Harry’s arms.

“What are you doing?” Harry whispered; it felt wrong to speak aloud, somehow. “Are you okay? What’s happened? How did you _get_ here?”

“F-flew,” Draco said. His teeth were chattering, his clothes heavy and sodden. 

“From _Wiltshire_?”

Draco let out a shivery laugh and turned his face against Harry’s neck.

“What’s happening?” Harry repeated. “What’s - are you okay?”

“Oh, it’s so bad,” Draco said. He sounded almost hysterically cheerful. “So, so bad. Really - not a great summer, Potter. How’s yours been?”

“Pretty shit,” Harry said.

“I am very sure,” Draco said, still shuddering all over, “that I could give you a run for your money.”

Harry hesitated, then said, “You’re - you’re freezing. Come on, you’re going to get sick, let’s - let’s get you out of these--” and turned slightly so Draco wouldn’t see his flush.

Draco followed agreeably enough, though he didn’t seem to understand what Harry meant when Harry fetched him a dry long-sleeved shirt from Harry’s drawer, just stared blankly at him. After a moment Harry moved forward and tugged at Draco’s wet sweater, and Draco lifted his arms, let Harry draw it off him, and the soaking shirt underneath, and then Harry was blinking and flushing at Draco bare-chested and staring at him in Harry’s bedroom.

Draco had never been in Harry’s bedroom. Harry was suddenly very conscious of the Chudley Canons posters on his walls, the mess of it, his laundry basket overflowing, the clothes strewn around the floor, the handful of photos of his friends and family pinned up in one corner. There were photos of Draco mixed in with them all, he knew. He tried not to make eye contact with them.

“What,” Draco said, voice low, gravelly, and Harry looked away, embarrassed, and wrestled the sweatshirt onto him. It was soft and worn thin, one of Harry’s favourites, a deep navy blue. It was slightly too big on Draco’s narrow shoulders. The moment it was on Draco immediately dropped his nose to the shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Is this yours?” Draco said, and Harry, flushed, wondering, nodded. Draco stared back at him, wild-eyed.

“You want some, uh, pyjama pants?” Harry asked, and Draco said, “Oh, are we going to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Harry realised. “I - what do you want? What do you need?” and Draco started shivering again.

“I can’t go back,” he whispered, low, desperate, “I can’t, Harry, I can’t,” and Harry grabbed Draco by the elbows.

“No,” he said, low and intent, “no, I won’t let you, I promise.”

“You - you gotta,” Draco said, teeth chattering.

Harry didn’t know what he meant but he would have agreed to anything; he said, “Yes, yeah, I promise,” and then, because Draco seemed so cold, he steered them towards his bed, its stupid red covers, and along the way Draco kicked off his shoes and trousers and they both dived under the covers like a sanctuary, curled up tight together.

Harry couldn’t remember the last time they’d been this close. He couldn’t remember if they’d ever been this close. He pressed his face against Draco’s hair and held on tight.

After a long while, Draco croaked, “Water,” and Harry reached for the glass on the bedside table and handed it to him. Draco pushed up on one elbow and took deep, gasping swallows from it, drained the glass.

They lay back down again, a little distance between each other now, heads on separate pillows and staring at each other.

Draco licked his lips and said, “He’s trying to make me - do something terrible.”

“Who?” Harry said, and then, eyes widening, “Oh.”

“I can’t do it,” Draco said, voice thick with terror, “I, Harry, I can’t - but he’ll kill me otherwise, he’ll kill my parents--”

“I won’t let him,” Harry said immediately.

Draco laughed, scornful and thin. “What are _you_ going to do?”

“We’ll stop him, we’ll protect you,” Harry said. “Me and my parents and the Order and Dumbledore--”

“Merlin.” Draco shuddered, and Harry moved forward instinctively, plastered himself over Draco the way he’d dreamed of. Draco twitched and then lay still, almost panting against the mattress. Harry was hot and frantic all over.

“Do you trust me?” he demanded. “Are you - are you gonna stay?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, “yes, yes, yeah.”

“Are you - will your mum be safe?” 

“I told them I was going to - to Pansy’s,” Draco said. “She’ll cover for me, a couple of days--”

“Okay,” Harry said. He pushed Draco’s hair roughly aside, kissed his cheek. He felt stupid and clumsy but he wanted to touch Draco, wanted to get his hands all over him. “Okay. Fine. Good. Then I can tell my parents and the Order and--”

“Not now,” Draco said, “not, not - don’t leave me,” and Harry pressed tighter to him.

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t, not ever,” and they held onto each other in the shivering lamplight of Harry’s room for as long as they could, awake, vigilent, until Harry’s whole head was heavy with sleep and he couldn’t remember the breath between falling asleep and the next.

\---

He slept late the next morning for the first time all summer. When he woke it was not to the panicked, stretched thin feeling he was used to but something heavy, content, warm. He felt solid and happy, weighed down, and slowly he realised that was because Draco was pressed up close behind him, Draco’s breath puffing against the back of Harry’s neck, Draco’s arm hugged possessively around Harry’s chest, Draco’s leg slung over Harry’s hip. Harry felt hot and flushed and sure that this was what he wanted, all he needed, even without opening his eyes; he pressed back against Draco, felt Draco’s hips twitch against him, heard Draco’s low grumble of pleasure and exhaustion.

Harry groped around for Draco’s hand, tucked in against Harry’s chest. He raised it blindly to his mouth, set his lips against Draco’s knuckles.

In the doorway, someone cleared their throat, and Harry’s eyes blinked open.

“Harry,” his mum said, low, leaning in the doorway, “do you want to come and talk to us for a minute?”

Harry felt abruptly certain that he was dying and hell was waiting to swallow him up, but when after a moment nothing happened he cleared his throat and whispered, “Sure,” and gently eased himself out of Draco’s grip. Draco whined but didn’t wake up. Awkward with his mum still watching him, Harry gave Draco a pillow, which he clung onto with a tiny frown.

“Um,” he said, standing in front of his mum and blushing, and she sighed and jerked her head and led him out into the dining room, where his dad, looking supremely amused, was making them all cups of tea.

“Er,” Harry said, and gratefully took the cup he was handed.

“Well,” Lily said. “I’m assuming that the Draco Malfoy in your bed right now is the same Draco Malfoy you’ve been insisting we should direct all the Ministry’s attention towards capturing all summer?”

“I - for his own good, I wanted that,” Harry said lamely. “And now he, er--”

“Now he’s shown up for a cuddle he’s incapable of evil?”

“James,” Lily said sternly, and James turned away for a moment, shoulders shaking. When he turned back with a firmly straight face, Harry glared at him, and James started laughing again.

“ _Dad_ ,” Harry said, folding his arms.

“Sorry, sorry,” James said. 

“He’s really upset!”

“I know,” James said. “I mean, I’m sure he is.”

“I need your help,” Harry said.

“And we’re here to help, sweetheart,” Lily said. “You should have come to us last night.”

“Er,” Harry said. “Well, it was really late. And he was all - all upset--”

“Right,” James said, and laughed again, then looked abruptly serious. “All right. Do you know what’s happening?”

Harry shook his head. “I think - I think You-Know-Who’s forcing him to do something really awful. To - I think it must be about Hogwarts, or else why would he want a schoolboy to help him?”

Lily and James exchanged a grave look. “Probably punishing Lucius too,” his mum murmured, “for the Ministry.”

Harry frowned. “Punishing him how?”

“By setting Draco up for - well,” Lily said, even as cold horror rushed over Harry. 

“For - what,” Harry said, low. “Azkaban? Or - or--”

“The important thing is he came here,” James said, voice warm. “And so we can help him. I think you’d better go wake him up, Harry, and see what he can tell us. We’ll make sure he and his mother are both safe.”

“Right,” Harry said, and put his cup of tea down. “And - and you’ll both be nice to him.”

Lily and James exchanged looks. “Of course,” Lily said.

“‘Cos you haven’t, before--”

“We understand that things are different now,” James said. He hesitated, then added, “Harry. Before you wake him up, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

“What?” Harry said, uncomprehending.

Lily smiled gently at him and said, “About Draco. And you. And--”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, feeling his cheeks heat. “No.”

“No, there’s nothing, or no, you don’t want to tell us,” James said. “Because I got to tell you, bud, when strange boys show up to sleep in your bed, and you two looked pretty cosy--”

“Dad!”

“It’s absolutely fine, Harry,” Lily said smoothly. “You know we couldn’t care less. But it’d be nice to know if you were bringing a boyfriend home--”

“I’m going to die,” Harry said. “I’m going to die, and I’m glad, because then I won’t be having this conversation anymore.”

James started to laugh again. “Yes or no, champ,” he said, “and then you can escape--”

“No!” Harry shouted. “No, okay, Draco’s my best mate, and we’re _not dating_ , and we’ve only even kissed that one time!”

“I’m sorry,” a cool, horrified drawl came, “I seem to have walked into some sort of nightmare. I’ll be on my way.”

Harry swung around, face burning, and saw Draco standing all sleep-rumpled in the doorway, wearing Harry’s shirt and a pair of Harry’s sweatpants and two pink spots of colour high in his cheeks.

“Um,” Harry said. “Hi.”

“Draco,” Lily said. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? Come sit down and have some tea.”

“Oh,” Draco said, looking baffled.

“Heard you’re in a spot of bother, mate,” James said gently. “Come have a cup of tea and some breakfast and we can talk about it.”

“Oh,” Draco repeated, going very pale, and he looked at Harry quickly. Harry, still furiously embarrassed, stepped in against Draco’s side, standing just behind him, shadowing him over to the table where Draco sat down like a prickly mountain lion, not sure yet whether it should run or attack.

Harry put a cup of tea in front of him, and Lily set down some crumpets. Draco looked startled.

“There,” she said. “Now, why don’t you tell us everything?”

\---

Everything seemed to happen very fast then: Draco poured out a long and awful story about how Malfoy Manor was overrun with Death Eaters and werewolves and crazy relatives, how he and his mother had spent the summer sure they were going to be killed for Lucius’s failure, and then when the Dark Lord did summon him at first it had felt like a relief, to be given something else, a _task_ , a way to atone and save his family, only after that the creeping doubt had come in, and the fear, because how could Draco, how could any seventeen year old boy, _kill Dumbledore_ \--

Harry felt stricken with horror, but his parents were calm: “Yes,” James said, “I think we’d better get Dumbledore here,” and he sent some Owls and promised Draco that Draco’s mother would be safe - and actually, after that the kitchen got very crowded, because a lot of the Order arrived and Dumbledore himself, who said that Draco had done the right thing and that he was very heartened, and then, in the middle of it all, Narcissa Malfoy was brought in, pale and anxious.

“Mother,” Draco said, looking a bit wild about the eyes - he went over to her and then hovered, as though unsure about whether he was allowed. “I’m - Mum, I’m really sorry, I didn’t know what to do--”

“Draco,” she said, voice cool and untouchable, “you have done _exactly_ the right thing,” and then she was hugging him, his face pressed to her shoulder, something so private and terrible about it that they all looked away.

“Of course we will keep you safe,” Dumbledore said. “Narcissa, there are many safe houses I can offer to you,” but Narcissa shook her head.

“I don’t want a safe house,” she said. “I want manpower.”

The Order stood watching her, silent.

“The Dark Lord has not chosen to set up court in Malfoy Manor on a mere whim,” Narcissa said. “It is an old and ancient house, with many deeply important magical artifacts and tomes. I will not be driven out of my home, and I do not _think_ you would like the Dark Lord to run riot through it.”

“You want us to get you your house back?” James said skeptically.

Sirius rubbed his face with his hands. “Don’t like to admit it, mate, but she’s right,” he said, while he and Narcissa exchanged another of the venemous looks that they’d been trading all morning. “I don’t know what You-Know-Who’s going to find in there, but it’s not going to be good. And we should move now - before they’re expecting anything, while we can use Narcissa to make it a legal bid--”

“Yes,” Narcissa said, “the wards of the house will work with us,” and then all the adults stood up and made as though to move.

Harry said, “I can help,” and Draco nodded, standing next to him, shoulders pressed close.

“Absolutely not,” Narcissa and James said at once, and Lily touched Harry’s hair and said, “This will be fine, Harry. Stay here, where you’ll be safe.”

“Really,” Sirius said, baring his teeth in a grin, “I think this will be fun.”

Harry and Draco tried to argue but they were roundly shut down and when the adults left Harry watched the shimmery gold wards come down; he had a feeling that if he and Draco tried to follow, it would not end well.

Draco stood hanging in the doorway, as though still staring after his mother. Harry’s shirtsleeves were too long for him, and he’d rolled them over his knuckles, fingers clutching the soft cotton. The sweatpants were too short; they bared a swathe of bony shin.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry said.

Draco didn’t respond.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I didn’t know what to do. Should I have not told them?”

“No,” Draco said, sounding very far away. “No, I - I don’t know what I would have done. I suppose this is…” He trailed off, shook his head. “Can we go sit outside?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Bring a snitch,” Draco said, and they went and sat side by side on the back porch of Godric’s Hollow, taking turns releasing the snitch and catching it before it could fly away.

It felt like weeks since they’d been alone together, rather than hours; and longer still that they’d been together without fighting or being in terrible danger or -- anyway. Harry stole glances at Draco, not sure what to say. He was conscious of his parents out there, fighting, anxiety crawling in his chest. He released the snitch and snatched it out of the air, again and again.

“Well,” Draco said finally, as if he was coming to a decision, and Harry shoved the snitch into his pocket, turned and looked at him.

“Yeah?”

Draco rubbed his face with his hands. He looked worn, a summer of fear tracked across his features. “I don’t know,” he said. “Guess we should stop fighting now.”

“Uh,” Harry said. “Well, yeah, I kind of figured.”

Draco gave him a narrow look. “Even though you got my father incarcerated.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

Draco sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He hesitated, and the pause felt charged in a way it never had before; Harry felt his heart beating faster and then Draco turned to him and said, “Harry, I--”

The wards around them shimmered gold, then fell down. Harry was on his feet at once.

“My parents,” he said, something terrible caught in his chest.

“Come on,” Draco said immediately; he was on his feet too. 

They took the Floo, now that it was working again, and whirled out into a blaze of fighting. Draco was gaping, frozen, and Harry grabbed his forearm and dragged him down, curses smashing overhead. Draco took a cursory look around the room, which was filled with people Harry didn’t recognise, then said, “Come on!” and dragged Harry sideways behind a tapestry.

Harry was about to tell him that he didn’t think they’d get away with just hanging out there, but a panel in the wall opened up and he gaped at Draco as Draco pulled him in.

“Come on,” Draco said grimly. “We can get through here and spy on the rooms, but they’ll find us after a while--”

“Okay,” Harry said, and gripped Draco’s hand tight in the dim light; they stumbled through the narrow passageways, stopping to peer through crannyholes into where fighting was going on. Harry saw Sirius laughing and fighting off Bellatrix Lestrange, saw Mr Weasley locked in combat with Dolohov - but he couldn’t see his parents anywhere, nor Narcissa, and Draco dragged him along.

Then they reached the outside, and Harry saw his dad kneeling on the ground, his mum’s head in his dad’s lap, and he surged for a door.

“Harry!” Draco hissed, “Wait!” but Harry was already bursting out of the wall and onto the tidy Malfoy Manor gravel, launching himself to his parents’ side in a spray of dirt.

“Harry!” his dad said, and gave him an exasperated look. “Ah. The wards went down.”

“Is Mum,” Harry babbled, and James shook his head, grabbed Harry’s arm firmly.

“She got hit by a stray _stupefy_ ,” he said. “She’s fine. You, on the other hand, are in trouble,” but he was smiling, and as Harry watched, Draco hovering nervously above him, the other members of the Order of the Phoenix started coming out with Death Eaters bound in cords or knocked out and Narcissa came down the stairs to give them a startled look and put a firm hand on Draco’s shoulder, and Malfoy Manor was theirs.

\---

It took a long time to go home. Harry and Draco wandered blankly around the Manor, ended up sitting in the kitchen eating sandwiches the terrified house elves produced, tried to steer clear of the adults, who all shot them dirty looks and seemed on the point of sending them home. Draco looked a little lost.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked.

“Sure, yeah,” Draco said bleakly. “Worst summer of my life, but as long as you show up and fix everything, perfect fucking Potter--”

“Are you _mad_ at me?” Harry said incredulously, and Draco stared at him, then let out a shuddering breath.

“No,” he said. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Harry licked his lips, staring at Draco, and said, “That was a shit year.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. He glanced down. Their knees knocked, and Draco looked up, almost startled; the air between them felt thick, impenetrable, but they were leaning forward anyway, staring, caught like small animals in a predator’s trap, and Harry still didn’t understand completely how this was happening, what it meant. He’d known Draco since they were kids. He’d spent years watching Draco being a posh stuck-up weirdo. He’d seen Draco with slime in his hair from an exploding cauldron and covered in mud and spit from an embarrassing Quidditch match, it didn’t seem right that the sight of Draco could surprise him, that Draco’s grey eyes could look new, the careful curve of Draco’s mouth something that needed to be obsessed over and catalogued now, but Harry was staring, getting closer and closer and not closing his eyes--

“All right, kiddo,” James said, and Harry jerked backward. James came through the doorway, passing a hand over his eyes, looking exhausted. “We can go, now.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Right.”

James looked at Draco, something tired and compassionate in his gaze. “You too, Draco,” he said. “Your mum reckons it’ll be best if you stay at our place until you go back to Hogwarts. We’re still making sure the Manor is safe.”

Harry’s gaze snapped to Draco. Draco looked uncertain. “I don’t want to leave my mother alone,” he said, slow.

“She’ll have a team of aurors with her,” James said, adding wryly, “Including her niece. I believe they have some catching up to do.”

Draco stood up. “I want to talk to her.”

“Of course,” James said, “we’ll wait for you,” and he and Harry went and found Lily, who was rubbing her head and grimacing as Healers tried to attend to her, batting them away. Harry folded his arms, hunched shoulders next to his parents, even as Lily forced him into a hug and told him off for coming after them.

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, “I thought you might be in trouble.”

“Gryffindors,” Draco said disdainfully, and Harry looked over his shoulder. Draco was standing with his mother, both of them icy and perfect. Draco had a bag slung over one shoulder. Harry’s heart leapt.

“You’re coming with us?”

“If the invitation stands,” Draco said, as polite as though he and Harry had never met before, and Harry scowled at him.

“It’s very kind of you,” Narcissa said. Her hand fluttered over Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll have his trunk sent on directly to the Hogwarts Express. Draco - be good - I’ll come and see you soon - don’t make trouble--”

“Okay, Mum,” Draco said, face tight, and after a moment Harry looked away. It seemed the right thing to do, and when he snuck a glance back Draco was in his mother’s arms, her face pressed to his hair, so Harry supposed he’d been right.

James cleared his throat, and Harry looked again and saw Draco standing next to them, his face peaked and nervous.

“All right,” Lily said, warm and sure, “let’s go home.”

It was only when they all spilled back out into the kitchen at Godric’s Hollow that Harry realised how late it was, and that he was starving; he wasn’t sure if he’d eaten since breakfast, and it was nearly ten o’clock. James chucked a pot of beans on and Harry sliced up thick pieces of sourdough while Lily made cups of tea all round and Draco stood looking a little awkward and shellshocked, until Lily shoved him into a chair and put a mug in his hands.

“You must be absolutely exhausted,” she said. “Tough summer, huh?”

“I - yes,” Draco said.

“You should be very proud,” she said. “You’re a brave kid. You did exactly the right thing, coming here.”

“Oh,” Draco said, dazed. Harry didn’t blame him. Last night felt like a million years ago.

“Let’s eat,” James said, “we can talk about it later,” and he served them up plates of beans on toast with a whole array of condiments set out in front of them, and Draco, who Harry had heard criticise Hogwarts feasts as “frightfully underwhelming”, fell on it like a starving man.

“Right,” Lily said, when they were all done and the dishes were washing themselves in the sink. There was a slightly steely note in her voice. “I’ll just get the guest bedroom ready for you, Draco.”

“Oh,” Draco said again, as Harry’s head popped up.

“Er,” Harry said. “I mean--”

“Yes?” Lily said, face still stern. James looked amused.

“I mean, there’s the - the air mattress?” Harry said. Draco was going slowly pink, and Harry couldn’t meet his mum’s eyes, but he wanted Draco in reach. “He could sleep on the floor in my room?”

Lily said, “Hmm. Bedroom door stays open, Harry.”

“Merlin,” Draco said, voice cracking, “the - the guest room is fine, thank you, Mrs Potter--”

“Oh, please, it’s Lily,” she said. “But of course, Draco, whatever would make you settled. Here, come with me and I’ll fetch you a towel and things,” and she led Draco out of the room.

Harry glared at the floor.

“Nice try, kiddo,” James said, mouth full, and Harry shoved up and stalked out of the room.

“Hey!” James called after him, laughing. “Sleep well! Big day tomorrow!”

\---

Harry slept restlessly, only properly falling asleep well into the early hours of the morning, like he was six years old again, and then he was woken way too early the next morning, the sunrise still slanting across his room and Draco’s face bare centimetres from his.

Harry stared blearily, resisted the urge to reach out and haul Draco in. He wouldn’t have to reach very far.

“Time to wake up, Potter,” Draco whispered. He was grinning, stupid and barely contained. “I’m hungry.”

“Time s’it?” Harry mumbled.

“Six.”

“Mrgh.” Harry turned his face into his pillow. “No. Sleep more.”

“Up you get,” Draco said, unrepentant.

Harry grabbed for his wrist, tried to drag Draco in. “Come here and sleep more.”

“No, no,” Draco said, laughing breathlessly. “I’m scared of your mum. Come on, get up.”

“Fine,” Harry said, with great effort, and slowly hauled himself up. He had to sit on the edge of his bed for a moment with Draco crouched before him and his head planted on Draco’s shoulder before he could gather himself to stand up. Draco didn’t seem to mind, laughing a bit and touching the messy hair on the nape of Harry’s neck.

“Can you make breakfast?” Draco asked, as they headed into the kitchen, Harry making a beeline for the kettle. Draco came with him, mostly because Harry was still clutching his wrist. 

“Mm,” Harry said. He yawned, jaw cracking. “What d’you want?”

“Pancakes,” Draco said, “and bacon. And more tea.”

“Haven’t even made the first cup of tea yet,” Harry mumbled, and Draco put his hand on Harry’s hip, gently turning him round until they were facing each other. That woke Harry up a bit. He blinked back at Draco. “What?”

“Just having a look at you,” Draco said, and Harry felt his cheeks going hot. Draco raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, awkward.

“I didn’t get you a present,” Draco said.

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was still going to be angry at you,” Draco said.

Harry swallowed. “I mean, I didn’t get you a present either.”

“That’s true,” Draco said. “You owe me.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and couldn’t help his gaze flitting to Draco’s mouth.

Draco looked pink and disbelieving and happy. He laughed and stepped away, said, “Breakfast, Potter.”

Harry switched on the radio, because otherwise the quiet between them felt too pointed, too thick, something that he wanted to break by biting Draco’s lip, and was rewarded by Draco at his most ridiculous, slipping around the kitchen in his socks and putting on extravagant dance numbers. Harry was laughing helplessly all through frying the pancakes, and when his parents arrived downstairs they, too, stood baffled and grinning as Draco moonwalked backwards and tried singing along to a song he clearly didn’t know the lyrics for. 

Harry had half-worried for a moment that it might be weird, all of this, but Draco fit by his side perfectly and naturally, as though he’d always been there on Harry’s birthday mornings, as his parents handed over presents and they all drank tea and ate the pancakes Harry had made and under the table, Draco’s knuckles kept brushing over Harry’s knee.

After breakfast they all wandered about for a bit, and Harry and Draco ended up in the living room, with Draco playing stupid, jaunty melodies on the piano that was rarely touched, and Lily and James wandering past now and then to smile indulgently. Over the course of the day Sirius and Remus showed up, and they had presents, too. Harry thought he would feel embarrassed, like a little kid with Draco watching, but instead it felt weird and right, like Draco was meant to be there, prickly and interested and swooping down on the gifts he liked the look of to examine them.

Sirius eyed Draco carefully when he came in. “You’re Narcissa’s kid,” he said, slow.

Draco gave him a cool look. “You’re the delinquent uncle.”

Sirius scoffed. “I’m not your uncle.”

“No,” Draco agreed, “you’re not even my second cousin. No one wants you anymore.”

“Draco,” Harry said, shocked, and James looked annoyed, but Sirius just barked a laugh.

“That’s right,” he said. “And I don’t want them. Even if Narcissa has decided to get all morally ambiguous in her old age.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and Harry hastily grabbed his elbow and dragged him out of the room. “Don’t fight with Sirius,” he said. “He’s my godfather.”

“My mother says he’s a coward and a wastrel,” Draco said.

Harry glared, opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Draco looked amused and sorry at once. “But I suppose as it’s your birthday,” he said, and when they went back into the living room he sat down at the piano again and played, straight-faced, a filthy drinking song about the many generations of inbreeding in pureblood families that had Sirius choking on air with laughter.

In the evening the Hogwarts crowd showed up. Harry had almost forgotten they were coming, and when he heard Ron’s voice in the hall he glanced at Draco, who had gone pale.

“Is it -- it’s all right?” Harry said. “It’s just the Gryffindors and, uh. And Millie.”

“Gryffindors, and you’ve stolen my Slytherin,” Draco repeated, making it sound not very appealing.

Harry frowned. “She’s not your Slytherin,” he said. “What do you mean? You don’t like--”

“Draco!” Ron said in the doorway, making Harry look away from where Draco’s cheeks were going slowly pink, his expression shy and pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” Draco said, looking up. “Hello, Weasley. Weasleys,” he ammended, when Ginny appeared behind Ron’s shoulder, waving. “The usual, you know. Changed sides, betrayed a cause, etc.”

“You can’t betray the wrong side,” Harry said.

“I really would love to believe that,” Draco said, and swallowed nervously, “but I don’t think the -- the Dark Lord is the type to say, ‘oh, sorry it didn’t work out for you, best of luck in your future endeavours--’”

“Blimey,” Ron said. “You two have had a more exciting week than us.”

“Mum’s decided to spring clean,” Ginny said, making a face and coming forward to give Harry a hug and kiss his cheek. “In _summer_. It’s awful. Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Yeah, happy birthday, mate,” Ron said, patting his back. “We got you some more broom shit--”

“Oh, wicked,” Harry said, taking the lumpy parcel Ron handed over.

Draco looked disapproving. “This is not how you’re meant to give presents, Gryffindors. Don’t you know _anything_?”

Ron laughed, jumping up to perch on the table. “You wouldn’t like it if we did. What would you be all posh and mean about?”

“Aw, this is so cute,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “The dream team back together. You can stop freaking out now, huh, Ron?”

Ron went red. “Shut up, Ginny,” he said, adding cruelly, “Is Neville here yet, Harry?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes and punched Ron in the shoulder, a little too hard to be friendly, and then luckily the door slammed open again and everyone else seemed to arrive in a rush: Neville and Hermione Granger together as always, though Neville smiled shyly at Ginny; Dean, Seamus, and the Parvati twins arguing fiercely; Millie looking a little awkward but beaming when she saw Draco and giving Harry an overexuberant hug. Harry’s dad levitated in snacks and Sirius passed around Butterbeer, winking at Harry as he did, which meant it probably had some rum in it as well. It was warm enough that they all ended up sprawled out in the backyard, and everyone seemed torn between relieved that Draco was back and everything was normal, and wanting to question him intensely about what had happened over the last few months; they settled for just talking to him a lot about nothing in particular, which Harry thought suited Draco all too well, given that talking about himself was one of his favourite things to do.

Harry couldn’t even summon up the occasional annoyance that provoked him to. Draco’s shoulder was warm against his, and they were both leaning back on their hands. If Harry shifted a little his pinkie finger would brush Draco’s. Draco was warm and steady next to him, and Harry’s heart felt like it was fluttering in his throat.

“So you can’t go back to the Manor?” Ginny said. “What was the point of saving it, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It is saved,” he said. “But I guess it’s not the safest place right now. My mother is there, she’s looking after it.” He shifted in the grass very slightly. “She thinks it’s best if I stay with the Potters for a while.”

“Until school starts?” Ron looked envious. 

“Or until the Potters remember they don’t like me and boot me out,” Draco said.

“They’re not going to do that,” Harry said, and exchanged a quick look with Draco.

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Well,” he said. “Okay, then.”

\---

They stayed outside even as the dusk fell, the adults disappearing somewhere discreetly while a few surreptitious bottles of firewhiskey were produced.

“I can’t believe your mum lets you get away with this stuff,” Seamus said enviously.

“Once a year,” Harry said, sighing. “Honestly, if my birthday wasn’t during the summer, we could probably get away with more at _school_.”

“What heights of debauchery would you be getting up to otherwise, Potter?” Draco drawled. “Game of Exploding Snap? Quick dash to the kitchens for more pudding?”

Harry thwacked him idly in the chest, as they were all mostly sprawled on their backs now. Draco hit him back, and Harry rolled onto his side and shoved at Draco’s hip. Draco looked up at him, eyes wide. Harry grinned at him, helpless, and then planted his face on Draco’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

Draco smelled good. Harry was trying not to think about it too much, heart rabbiting in his chest.

“Ah, yes,” Draco said, voice a little strained. “Napping on me. Truly you are a menace to society.”

There was some whispering and giggling on the other side of the circle. Harry tried his best to ignore it.

The second bottle of firewhiskey had to be quickly stashed away when Harry’s mum came out and said, “All right, how many sleeping bags am I setting up?”

“Me, please, Lily,” Ron said, and Hermione added, “Oh, would you mind? It’s tricky to get back to Muggle London,” and Harry didn’t have to look up from where he was still slumped on Draco to know that Ron looked stunned and pleased. Neville was staying too, of course, and Ginny, and Millie agreed after Draco demanded that she helped him out with at least _some_ Slytherin presence, and Seamus was going home but Dean stayed, with the result that Lily set out a bunch of spare mattresses and sleeping bags in Harry’s and the spare room and told them, laughing, to sort it out themselves, that she was going to bed. It was uncomfortably dark outside, so she escorted them into the living room, got them settled with late night snacks and the record player.

“Some of us have work in the morning,” she said. “So try and keep it down, won’t you?”

“It’s okay,” Harry murmured, “they’ll cast a _Muffliato_ ,” and Lily pointed her finger at him warningly, made him laugh.

“Night, birthday boy,” she said, and Harry could feel his face going hot as Ron sniggered and Draco batted his eyelashes at Harry.

“Night, Mum,” he said, and she gave them all a fond look and disappeared.

“Where’s all your music?” Ginny asked, going and kneeling over the record collection, “I want to _dance_ ,” except what that meant is she eventually found the Dirty Dancing soundtrack -- which Lily had introduced all the Weasleys too at a way-too-early age -- and tried to convince Draco to do the Mickey/Sylvia bit. Draco, who had never heard of the movie and seemed vaguely baffled by the concept, got into it after a while like Harry suspected he would, because he was a massive show-off and kind of a dork. Harry was busy rolling his eyes at Draco shimmying around the place with Ginny until Draco looked back over his shoulder, right at Harry, and Harry’s stomach dropped, smile fading, as the laughter died on Draco’s face. They were both staring. Harry’s heart was pounding.

Ginny said, “Now we have to do the bit where you lift me in the air--” and Draco stepped back, looking alarmed.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Get Potter to do it, he’s the sports fiend.”

“Finally admitting I’m better than you at Quidditch?” Harry said, and Draco bared his teeth but it didn’t look quite as pissed off as usual, and then Harry was distracted by Ginny leaping on him. When he set her down, both of them breathless and laughing, Draco was still watching him.

“Right,” Hermione said, some time later, “we should go to bed. How shall we do it, boys in Harry’s room and girls in the spare?” and Harry could have kissed her.

\---

Lily had left three sleeping bags in Harry’s room, and Ron grabbed the one on the camp bed and said, “Bags it. Someone’ll have to share with Harry.”

“Um,” Harry said, and Ron misunderstood him, said, “You can’t have a double bed for yourself, mate, even if it is your birthday. There’s room, you’ll survive.”

Neville yawned. “Well, I don’t mind.”

“No,” Harry said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say when the others stared at him. He could feel his cheeks warming.

“He means I’ll be cross if I have to sleep on a bed on the _floor_ ,” Draco said, sneering at Neville, “and he’s very correct. I’m -- I’m just going to brush my teeth,” and then he turned on his heel and swept out of the room, a little ruined by the fact that he was in flannel striped pyjamas. They were much fancier than anything Harry wore to bed, but they were clearly last year’s: Draco had shot up again, and they bared his bony ankles. Harry felt hopelessly attracted to Draco’s ankles, which clearly meant he’d gone completely mad.

Neville and Dean rolled their eyes at each other, and Neville mumbled, “Don’t know how you can put up with him.”

“Oh,” Harry said weakly. “You get used to him.” He busied himself with fluffing his pillows. Ron was watching him, curious, and when Harry went to go get a glass of water for his bedside table, Ron followed.

“Something you want to tell me about?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Er,” Harry said. “No?”

“Hmm,” Ron said, and filled his own glass. “Okay. Don’t do anything gross when I’m in the room, I’m begging you.”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, and hurried upstairs so he couldn’t see Ron smirking at him.

When he got there Draco was already in bed, hair golden in the lamplight, lying on his back and sleepily arguing Wimbourne’s chances in the League that year. He looked perfectly normal except for the very faint flush on his cheeks, which Harry might have been imagining, anyway. Harry’s head was buzzing. He couldn’t think straight. Draco was in his ridiculous buttoned up pyjamas and the covers were up to his chest and it was still one of the sexiest things Harry’d ever seen, Draco Malfoy in his bed and waiting for him.

“All right, Harry?” Dean said, cocking an eyebrow. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“What? No, fine,” Harry mumbled. “Tired, you know.”

Draco wasn’t looking at him properly. Harry got into bed. He had a big bed, and there was a gap of space between them large enough he shouldn’t have been able to feel warmth prickling in the absence. He didn’t dare turn his head and look at Draco.

The conversation rambled on. Harry thought maybe they were still talking about Quidditch. He wasn’t sure. Draco had stopped talking, too, and eventually the light was switched off, and it was just Neville murmuring about Herbology, and then it was just a chorus of snores.

Harry lay perfectly still in the warm dark, not daring to move.

“Are you awake?” Draco whispered.

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Draco didn’t say anything else, and after a moment Harry dared to roll onto his side. In the dim light, he could just make out the sharp planes of Draco’s face, his pale hair, his eyes dark and unreadable. Harry’s breathing felt ragged.

“Good birthday?” Draco said, hushed.

Harry nodded dumbly.

“I don’t,” Draco started, and looked at the ceiling for a moment, drawing in a breath. His face was pinched, almost sour with nerves. “I don’t understand what -- I don’t know what to do around you. I don’t want anything to be different but--”

“Nothing?” Harry said, and the sound of his own voice surprised himself, gravelly and deep. Draco’s gaze jerked back to him, and Harry thought he could just see colour in Draco’s cheeks.

“This is so weird,” Draco whispered.

“I know.”

“It’s so -- it’s not what I--”

Harry pushed himself up on an elbow and reached over Draco, pulling him in with a possessive hand, tilted his head down and kissed Draco right on his stammering mouth. Draco let out a sharp little gasp and grabbed at Harry, his shoulders, his hips, pulling him down on top of Draco and Harry kissed him just as hungrily as he felt. Draco’s hands were so tight they were almost painful on him, furious, and Harry panted into Draco’s mouth, felt the hot touch of Draco’s tongue and nearly groaned, hips jerking.

“Fuck,” Draco said, pristine, and Harry kissed him helplessly, kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck; got distracted there, when Draco made another tiny noise, dwelling on it. Harry nosed at Draco’s ear, dragging his lips over Draco’s throat, soft and then not so soft.

“I -- I can’t,” Harry mumbled, muffling his voice against Draco’s throat and Draco let out another ragged breath.

“We can’t,” he said, low.

Harry ran a hand down Draco’s side, slow, marvelling at the way Draco clutched at his back and arched up against him. “Ron asked us not to do anything gross while he was in the room--”

“Well, now you’ve ruined it,” Draco whispered harshly. “Please don’t bring up Weasley while we’re -- ah, ah, _Harry_ ,” and his hands were in Harry’s hair, the two of them kissing slow and quiet as they could. Every breath felt heavy and hot. Harry thought he might shake apart.

“We can’t,” he repeated, and Draco made a tiny, furious noise, and then shoved Harry away, flinging the blanket half off and lying there in the dark breathing hard. A couple of buttons of his pyjama top were undone; Harry hadn’t even noticed himself doing that, and Draco looked unbelievable. The idea of resisting touching him was impossible.

When he reached out again, though, Draco slapped at his hand.

“No,” Draco said, in a harsh whisper. “I -- I’m not doing this for the first time trying to be quiet while _Gryffindors_ are asleep on the floor.”

Harry knew Draco was right, but he couldn’t help asking: “Doing -- what?”

Draco shoved him down, looming over him in the dark, face intent and hungry. “I’m going to _fuck you_ , Potter,” he hissed, “I’ve spent a year hating you and thinking about it--” and Harry made a rough, helpless noise, reaching for him: they kissed again, desperate, urgent, and then Draco said, “for _fuck’s_ sake,” and rolled away.

“Merlin,” Draco said faintly, turning so his back was to Harry. “Don’t -- don’t touch me.”

Harry laughed, low in the dark. He felt dazed and helpless, hot all over. “You don’t wanna cuddle?”

“Shut up,” Draco said grumpily, but then he peered back over his shoulder, looking speculative. “Well, all right.”

“What?”

Draco reached out and grabbed Harry’s wrist, tugging him over, and Harry found himself pressed up all along Draco’s back. It wasn’t -- he couldn’t hide anything, was momentarily embarrassed over how hard he was, only then Draco made a tiny, surrpised noise and pushed _back_ against Harry, rolling his hips, so that Harry had to muffle a shout against Draco’s neck.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, and Draco twitched and whimpered. Harry realised, with slow dawning delight, that his mouth was hot on Draco’s neck again, and he kissed Draco there again, slow, while Draco shuddered against him.

“You’ve got a _thing_ for this,” he said, grinning, and Draco shushed him but didn’t deny it.

“Go to sleep,” Draco whispered instead. “When can you get rid of the Gryffindors tomorrow?”

“I’m kicking them out after breakfast,” Harry said fervently.

Draco laughed, took hold of the hand that lay draped over him and raised it to his lips, kissed Harry’s knuckles. Harry felt flushed and overwhelmed, bowed his head against the nape of Draco’s neck. Draco still smelled so good.

“I’m never going to be able to sleep like this,” he murmured.

“Try,” Draco said.

It took Harry a long time, but it was okay, even in the aching want of it. He knew Draco was awake, too.

\---

He woke up the next morning to Ron complaining loudly about Dean farting. It felt like another world, and Harry kept his eyes closed tight, reached out through the bed for where Draco had rolled away, and found only empty space.

He opened his eyes, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. Ron and Dean were scuffling halfheartedly on the floor, and Draco was leaning in the doorway, towelling damp hair, watching Harry. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Ron said, looking up at him. “Back me up. Dean’s farts are definitely worse than mine, right?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Time for breakfast, Gryffindors,” he said, and Harry flopped back onto his back, stared dazedly at the ceiling.

\---

He half-thought they might be nervous and awkward around each other again when Neville -- who Harry loved, but was very close to saving You-Know-Who a job and murdering him himself -- finally raised a hand and ambled off to take the Floo home, but the moment he heard the telltale rush of flames he was turning on Draco, hungry, desperate, shoving him up against the counter and getting as close as he could. They kissed fumbling, Draco’s hands up under Harry’s t-shirt, touching him like he couldn’t get enough of Harry’s skin, and Harry leaned up, arm around Draco’s neck.

“You’re so _tall_ ,” he said without really meaning to, the words ripped out of him, and Draco laughed breathlessly and sent them stumbling backwards, until Harry’s back was up against the kitchen table. He moved up at Draco’s urging, jumping up to perch on the edge of the table, and then Draco could step in between his legs, Harry’s thighs tight against Draco’s hips, his hands fisted in Draco’s hair.

“Better?” Draco mumbled, and Harry shook his head dazedly and couldn’t find the breath to tell Draco it hadn’t been a complaint.

Harry’s bedroom was just upstairs, and there was a whole bed there, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to stop, Draco pushing him further back, nearly crawling on top of the table too. Harry was shivering, hands skating up under Draco’s shirt, the smooth planes of his back. He smelled all fresh from the shower, a little bit like Harry’s shampoo, which was sexier than it should have been. Harry’s mouth felt swollen and bruised, almost painful, and when Draco’s leg settled between Harry’s thighs it was an embarrassingly short time before Harry found himself clutching at Draco’s shoulders, arching up and coming without anything more than the steady pressure of Draco’s leg.

“Fuck,” Harry said, tiny, embarrassed and overwhelmed, and Draco stared down at him, eyes darker than normal, mouth pink and swollen.

“Did you just,” he said, and then pressed his face against Harry’s neck, panting.

“I -- sorry--”

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco said, but he didn’t say it like he’d said it for years, annoyed or fond, flushed in the middle of a fight, rolling his eyes or dismissing some insufferable Gryffindor-ish comment that was too below him to be argued with. He said it like Harry was something new, something infinitely valuable and desired, some impossible gift that he had never expected and always wanted, something magic, and he looked at Harry like that too, kept looking and looking, and his wonder didn’t change when Harry feebly pushed Draco back and slid off the table and then onto his knees. It only deepened and grew until Harry couldn’t look at Draco’s face, could only close his eyes and use his mouth as best he could, with Draco’s hands light and possessive in his hair.

\---

Harry spent what was left of the summer sex-stupid. He felt like he was wandering around in a fog, unable to see anything beyond Draco and all the new brilliant, crazy things they’d worked out how to do. They had Godric’s Hollow to themselves all day while Harry’s parents were at work and half the time they never left Harry’s bedroom. Other times they went out and lay in the backyard, ate half-formed picnics, loaves of bread and fruit and leftovers stolen from the kitchen and then abandoned in the long grass when they reached for each other again. Sometimes they went flying through the copse close to the house, where if they stayed low and weaved through the trees they could escape Muggle notice, and trooped back into the house breathless and laughing, already grabbing at each other.

When Lily and James were home, Harry tried not to be too obvious, not to touch Draco, though he wasn’t sure that they were particularly successful at keeping it secret. His parents gave them amused looks, were unfailingly kind to Draco, and kept up a determined pretence that Draco and Harry were sleeping in separate rooms, even if that meant sometimes James woke Harry up in Draco’s bed and sent him back to his room before his mum noticed.

“You are playing with fire, kid,” James said, shaking his head, while Harry stumbled blearily back to his own room, hoping desperately the hickey on his chest wasn’t as obvious as he thought it might be.

“What?” Harry said, and then, sinking onto his bed. “Sorry, Dad. I’m -- I don’t know--”

“Mm,” James said, looking torn between amusement and concern. “It’s okay. I’ve been there.”

 

“Ew,” Harry said automatically.

James rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, closing the door, and Harry lay in his messy sheets and listened to the shower, the noise of his parents having breakfast, the front door closing twice.

His bedroom door opened.

“I think you’ve made me gone mad,” Draco said, still sounding mostly asleep, and stumbled across the room and into Harry’s arms.

It took them nearly a fortnight to get around to Draco’s hissed promise on the night of Harry’s birthday. Harry was nervous, and Draco kept trying to bluff his way through talking about it, until it dawned on Harry that _Draco_ was more nervous than him, which made it suddenly abruptly easier. It was kind of scary all the same: Harry felt strange and exposed, awkward and a little embarrassed, and then it was just the best thing he’d ever done, Draco underneath him, Harry riding him slow and sure, head falling back, gasping. He felt weak and shivery all over, a slow burn in his thighs, Draco deep and hot in him, and Draco was gaping up at him like he’d been hit on the head. Harry fell forward, shuddering, until they got their arms around each other’s shoulders and helped each other, moving slowly, the drag hot and perfect in the still, baking August afternoon.

On weekends, when Harry’s parents were home, they went wandering around the village hand in hand, in and out of shops without looking at anything, trying to talk the local bartenders into serving them pints with varying levels of success. Sometimes Harry touched Draco all day and still couldn’t bear to look at him, like he was getting too many good things at once, like if he looked at Draco he would finally break into a million pieces. Too often when he did look at Draco, Draco was already staring at him, eyes hot, and then they had to go find somewhere vaguely private for a while.

A week before they were due to go back to Hogwarts, Narcissa arrived unexpectedly to say that the Manor was safe and Draco could go back with her. Harry was just resigning himself to it when Draco pitched one of the least attractive tantrums of his life, announced that his mother was _ruining his life_ , and demanded that Harry be allowed to come too.

“Uh,” Harry said, when they’d arrived and Narcissa had swept away, looking annoyed. “You’re not very hot when you do that.”

Draco flipped him off, lazy.

“Also, I’m gonna assume your mum doesn’t work,” Harry said. “Based on the crazy rich thing. So, er, are we going to have to hang out with her all week--”

“The manor has forty-seven rooms, Potter,” Draco said, then frowned and added, “We think. Some of them aren’t always there.”

“I’m also not hugely into the bragging,” Harry said.

“One week,” Draco mused, hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Think we have time to fuck in all of them?”

Harry stared at him.

“Sorry,” Draco said. “What were you saying about me bragging?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Harry said, mouth dry.

“I thought you might,” Draco said, and dragged him off by the wrist.

A week in Malfoy Manor, finding its hidden corners, pushing aside priceless artifacts so Harry could lean over a desk, Draco on his knees while long velvet curtains fluttered around them, hiding them from view, falling asleep three times in the wrong room because they stayed up too late and couldn’t be bothered finding the way back to Draco’s. Harry felt breathless all the time. The days seemed to go past in skips and jumps; he would blink and be somewhere else, tucked away in the attic with Draco mouthing along his neck, sprawled out in a hidden garden plot with Draco dozing by his side, in a fancy awkward dinner with Narcissa listening indulgently to Draco talking on and on about how great he was at potions. 

Every now and then Harry remembered, with an odd little shock, that this summer had started with Draco on the wrong side and Harry furious and miserable with him. He said it once to Draco, late at night with the moonlight streaming in through Draco’s gauze curtains, and Draco looked at him, and said, “Yeah. It -- it doesn’t feel real.”

“That or this?” Harry said, worried, but Draco just laughed and kissed him.

It was impossible to hold onto worry in a summer like this, anyway. On Wednesday Harry found the deep lake tucked into a corner of the Malfoy property, and laughed at Draco.

“You’re just _impossibly_ rich,” he said.

“A lake isn’t that expensive,” Draco said, though he was preening, taking it as a compliment even when Harry didn’t mean it.

“Are those swans?” Harry said, squinting, and Draco laughed. “Don’t they fight with the peacocks?”

“It’s hot,” Draco said, smiling, “come on, Potter, give us a show,” and after a moment Harry obliged, tugged off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers and dove into the lake. It was deep and cool, perfect in the hot summer afternoon, and when he came up shaking his head Draco was staring at him, as Harry had known he would be.

“Come here,” Harry said, holding his hands out, prepared to coax or bully Draco in, but Draco was quiet and well-behaved for once, shucked his clothes and slipped neatly into the water. He struck out, swam strong across the lake and Harry gave chase, until they were splashing at each other and laughing, breathless.

Draco shoved Harry under, and Harry opened his eyes, saw the cool green tones of the lake floating, sunlight gleaming in deep held wells, and Draco’s pale legs. He gripped Draco’s ankles and pulled him down, and they both came up spluttering and gasping, Draco’s legs winding up around Harry’s waist, Harry hanging onto Draco’s shoulder.

“I’m -- this is going to be a good year,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Draco said, and then, “I think we should date.”

Harry blinked at him. “We’re not dating?”

Draco looked confused. “We -- haven’t gone on any dates.”

“You want to go places?” Harry said, bewildered.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “Not really. I want--” He trailed off, embarrassed, and Harry stared at him and felt almost painfully obsessed with him. His heart thumped hard.

“I thought we were, er,” he said, “you know. Boyfriends.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Yes. Please.”

“‘Yes please’?” Harry echoed, laughing and delighted, whole body warm in the cold water, and Draco made a face.

“Shut up, scarhead,” he said, and shoved Harry under the water again before Harry could ask what he meant.

\---

“A nice, restful year,” Ron said on the Hogwarts Express, “that’s what we need. Just let Neville take care of fighting evil and maybe now you guys have -- have sorted it out, I’ll _finally_ have time to convince Hermione Granger to kiss me.”

“Oh, because we were the ones stopping that from happening,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, Draco tall and lovely in his Hogwarts uniform next to Harry. “Honestly, Ron. What’s up?” he added to Draco, who was staring around Platform Nine and Three Quarters like he’d seen a ghost.

“I -- this makes no sense,” Draco said. “What are we -- we were just in the lake--”

“I know, this summer has flown by,” Harry said.

“No,” Draco said. “Potter, you’re not listening, you’re -- are you holding my hand?”

“What’s the matter with that?” Harry said. “You were the one who made

\---

Blaise Zabini looked haunted at the Slytherin table, and Harry nodded over at him. Draco was sitting with him, looking fastidious and displeased at being surrounded by Gryffindors but there for lunch nonetheless.

“Neville thinks Zabini’s up to something,” he said. “He keeps sneaking off to the Room of Requirement. Do you think maybe -- maybe You-Know-Who has gone to the Zabinis, now that he’s lost you and your mum?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Draco said. “Blaise’s mother would never let something like that happen, they’re not really -- part of that scene--”

“Oh, the Death Eater scene?” Harry said teasingly, stealing one of Draco’s bread rolls, and Draco stared at him like he’d grown another head.

“Potter,” he said. “Potter. Don’t you see there’s -- there’s something weird going on?”

“Are you talking about Neville and Ginny?” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Because everyone’s been expecting that for years. You know

\---

Harry saw a flash of white blond hair duck through a door and followed instinctively, shouting to Ron and Seamus that he’d catch up later and turning into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Draco was standing over the sinks, his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, head bowed. He was shaking.

“What’s happened?” Harry demanded, stepping forward. “Who’s done something? I’ll kill them.”

Draco turned around; his face was very pale, but he wasn’t crying, and he wasn’t hurt, and now Harry couldn’t think why he’d assumed Draco was. He faltered, mouth open and slack.

“Something’s gone wrong,” Draco said.

“What?”

“This isn’t the way it happened,” Draco said. “None of this is right.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said. “Draco,

**SEVENTH YEAR**

“We just have to stay calm, and careful,” Harry told Draco in a murmur as they hurried away from Alecto Carrow’s office. “Neville and Hermione are doing their best, and--”

“This is all falling apart,” Draco said, looking around himself with wide eyes. “It can’t hold together. It can’t make sense. Why wouldn’t they be going after you too, if your parents are in the Order? Where’s _my_ father? Why wouldn’t they have held me hostage against my mother? It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“Er, what?” Harry said, and took Draco’s hand. “Listen to me, Draco--”

“Literally nothing,” Draco said, staring down at their joined hands, “is making any sense.”

“No,” Harry said, weird, directionless anger welling up in him. “Listen to me. It’s _fine_. Neville’s going to defeat Voldemort and both of our parents will live and you and me can just -- we can just be happy--”

“Oh, Potter,” Draco said, and he looked terrified and furious, “can’t you see?”

Harry closed his eyes so he wouldn’t; he leaned forward and kissed Draco, kissed him past the first flinch and then Draco put his hand on Harry’s neck, so soft and kind, and Harry leaned in

\---

“We have to help Neville,” Harry said, grabbing Draco’s hand and dragging him through the battle-stormed Great Hall, ducking curses. “We have to find him and try and kill the snake--”

“I think something worse is happening,” Draco said, “I think

**THE FUTURE**

“Potter,” Draco said, standing dazzled in the big, beautiful room.

“What do you want?” Harry said, smiling. “You only ever call me that when you want something.”

“I -- where are we?”

“Oh, come on, you only had one mimosa,” Harry said, and pushed Draco in front of him, nudging him across the opulent rug and out onto the white sandstone balcony, where the full splendour of the Amalfi Coast laid itself out for them. 

“Merlin,” Draco said, sounding confused as a small child. 

“I know,” Harry said. “I know, it’s something,” and he tucked his chin on Draco’s shoulder, added, “I love you.” The sun was glinting on their wedding bands.

“Potter,” Draco said again, his voice shaking. “ _This isn’t_

\---

“Draco!” Lily said, and gave him a hug, squeezing tight. “You’re back!”

“As of about twenty minutes,” Harry said, setting his bag down behind them. “We thought we’d drop in before we went -- home,” because it was still odd to think of Malfoy Manor as _home_ , but Narcissa spent more and more time these days in her Italian villa, and Draco was obsessed with the Manor, loved it, never wanted to leave it, and Harry was beginning to love it too.

“We brought you biscotti,” Draco said, smiling, shaking James’s hand, who’d appeared, laughing delightedly, to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Harry wanted to get these awful Muggle t-shirts, too, but I put a stop to that.”

Harry’s dad looked disappointed. Harry caught his eye, jerked his head towards the suitcase they’d dropped. _Got em_ , he mouthed, and James said, “One for Sirius, too, I hope?”

“Of course,” Harry said.

“How was it?” Lily said, catching him in a hug too. “Was it wonderful? Oh, the Amalfi Coast, I wish we could go back, James -- Harry, we missed you two something awful, it was very embarrassing.”

“Missed you, too, Mum,” Harry said, resting his chin on her soft red hair, hugging her tight, “didn’t we, Draco?”

Draco looked up at him, absent, said, “Yes,” and then froze. “Oh,” he said.

“What?” James said, and Harry frowned.

“Not again, Draco,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco said. He stumbled backward, hand over his mouth. “This is so awful. This is

\---

“Listen,” Draco said, quiet in the dark night of their own bedroom, warm and safe and sound, and Harry yawned, tried to wake up enough to do what Draco asked. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t -- I know I can’t understand. But I think something bad is happening.”

“What?” Harry said sleepily. “What do you mean?”

“I know you don’t want to,” Draco said, “but I can’t break it on my own, I’m trying, it’s not working, it’s like we’re drowning in it. You have to help me. You’re stronger than me. You have to -- can you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Harry said, voice thick, trying to take Draco as urgently as he seemed to want to be taken. “Of course I trust you. I love you.”

Draco shuddered, and his hand brushed over Harry’s forehead, which was so clear, which was so smooth, which did not hurt, and said, “Please, then, try and

\---

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco said, as Harry came down Malfoy Manor’s long drive towards him. He looked frantic, drawn. “You’re not listening! You have to try and stop this, it isn’t _real_!”

“Stop it,” Harry said, a heavy, sweet weight on his shoulders. “Don’t talk like that in front of Scorpius.”

“ _Daddy_ ,” the little boy on Harry’s shoulders said, leaning forward, reaching happily for Draco, and Draco

\---

“They’re dead,” Draco said, “they’re both dead, you’ve never known them, I’m sorry, but none of this is real,” and Harry’s forehead burst into agonising pain; he could hear that high, cold laughter again, and someone screaming, _not Harry, please, not Harry--_

  
**A W A K E**

Harry opened his eyes. The Hospital Wing’s light was familiar, clear and white and somehow soft, like the mist drifting off the Hogwarts Lake in the early morning, though he couldn’t think why he would be here, back at Hogwarts, after all these years.

Draco was lying in a bed very close to Harry, his eyes closed, younger and frowning in his sleep. As Harry gazed blearily, though, Draco’s eyes opened, and he blinked back at Harry, eyes foggy.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” Harry asked, and smiled at him.

And then: “ _Harry_ ,” Ginny said, and Harry looked to see her in a chair on the other side of his bed, hair and clothes rumpled like she’d been asleep and now sitting bolt upright. “Oh, Merlin, you’re _awake_!”

Harry licked his lips. His mouth felt dry and cottony, and he realised now that when he’d spoken before it had come out like a rasp, as it did when he spoke again, blinking. “I’ve been asleep?”

“Harry,” Ginny said, and shifted to sit on the side of his bed, clutching his hand like a lifeline. “You’ve been unconscious for three weeks.”

“I -- what?” Harry said, and looked helplessly back at Draco, who was now on his back, staring at the ceiling, looking curiously blank. There was no one sitting by Draco’s bed.

“You were hit by a curse,” Ginny said, her gaze fierce and intent, trained on him. “Malfoy, too, he was walking on the other side of the hall and it backfired and hit him as well. We think they were leftover Death Eaters, you know, trying to get a last shot--”

“A curse,” Harry said. Everything felt very cold. He raised his hand and touched, as he had known he would, the raised lightning scar racing over his forehead.

“It’s okay,” Ginny said, eyes bright, “you’re awake now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it'd get weirder! New part coming soon in which things will get Even Clearer - until then, you can always come hang out with me at dddraconis.tumblr.com and keep chatting Drarry with me. And of course comments are much loved & appreciated! :*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like Snape and the Occlumency lessons, only a thousand times worse. Draco let loose in Harry's head, all of the embarrassing moments of his youth with Draco now watching on, and worse, a thousand invented moments. Draco could see exactly what Harry had wanted: a family, a birthday party, something normal and mundane and beloved. It was so humiliating. And that was before Harry even got to all the teenage romance.

“It’s the wards, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, her gaze sharp and honest. “They haven’t recovered from the War. They have outages, and--”

“Yes,” Harry said, remembering with a sinking feeling the night last June they’d spent patching the wards up at the far west of the Forbidden Forest, watching them flicker and die, patching them up again. It had been a cold, damp summer and Harry had been sweating with the shadow of the trees heavy on his back. Ron and Hermione had taken the route to the east, and Harry hadn’t walked through the clearing he’d died in yet, but the Forest still felt unfriendly in a way it hadn’t since he was eleven. He’d stopped halfway through to swipe his brow, gaze at the shivery curtain of ward spells, and realise absently that it was past midnight.

“There’s a weak spot,” he’d said, instead of the time.

“Yeah, there,” Ginny said, pointing her wand and sending a spark through the night. The spark flickered and hissed, falling near the centre of the crack. “Give it a go with that modified _Proteus_ again, maybe?”

Harry stared at it, exhausted. “Maybe the _Patronus_ instead. I don’t think I can -- could you?”

“Sorry, Harry,” she’d said quietly. She hesitated, then put a hand on the back of his neck, stroking a thumb against the nape. Harry let his head drop, eyes half-closed, glasses hanging askew. “I’m all used up today.”

“I’ll go find Luna,” Harry had said, Ginny’s hand cool and solid on his neck.

Shaking his head, he looked up at McGonagall and said, “I remember. We thought we -- but I guess it didn’t last.”

“The castle is still very much in an active state of _dis_ repair,” McGonagall said. “We need to be checking up on everything every day, and we are, for the most part. I cannot be sure how the wards going down in that particular area of the castle weren’t noticed, but they weren’t, and I can only apologise--”

“Professor,” Harry said, shocked and a little embarrassed. “I -- no. Don’t.”

McGonagall paused for a moment, then continued, “In any case. The wards _did_ go down, and in that time, some very lucky wizards or some well-informed wizards--”

She and Harry exchanged a brief, grim glance.

“-- managed to come in through the wards,” McGonagall finished. “They didn’t need to worry about the Anti-Apparation ban. They could just walk straight through.”

Harry rubbed his hand over his face. “And they weren’t caught?”

“Yes, one of them, the woman,” McGonagall said. “We got her name -- Brewer -- and then she vanished out from under the noses of the Ministry holding cell; we think she must have been broken out. Probably by the other one. There hasn’t been any sight of them since.”

Harry sighed. “I’ll want -- Professor, would it be possible to have a look at Pensieve memories of everyone involved?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Professor McGonagall said, and Harry nodded at her. McGonagall paused, stroking a hand through her crinkled hair, and then frowned and said, “Now, what was it that we started about?”

“ _My mother_ ,” Draco said, voice shaking with fury. “What have you told her?”

Harry risked a glance at Draco, but he’d barely moved in the last ten minutes. He was leaning as far out of his chair as possible, hair falling over his face, whole body twisted away from Harry and his gaze fixed, horrified, up on the far right corner of the ceiling. He looked like he could barely breathe with wanting to get out of the room and away from Harry.

“I sent her an update that you were awake and well when Madame Pomfrey informed me,” Professor McGonagall said.

“I should write to her,” Draco said. “She’ll be -- I need to write to her--”

“You will, shortly,” McGonagall said. “I want to confirm the exact contents of the curse. How long did you say you thought it had been?”

“A,” Harry said, and licked his lips. “I don’t know. A long time. Started when I was too young to remember and we must have been -- I think I was thirty, maybe thirty-five.”

“I’d say nine or so years in detail,” Draco said sharply, still determinedly not looking at either of them. “Mostly from when I was about eight until I was seventeen, and that involved a lot of time skips. Before that were just vague memories that I think were mostly real, and then after that -- just a few -- snapshots of years, more than anything.”

Harry glared at him, unreasonably annoyed at his precision. It hadn’t felt like nine years in detail. It had felt like a lifetime. It had been a life. He thought of his mum, whirling in his dad’s arms down on the Ministry ballroom floor, and had to stare out the window, eyes hot.

“And it was you, Mr Malfoy, who broke the curse?” McGonagall said sharply. “How did you manage it? How did you realise it wasn’t real?”

“Everything stopped making sense,” Draco said. “I don’t know. For a while it was like it -- took things that had really happened and skewed them and they still sort of seemed like they could have happened. It didn’t seem -- every now and then I felt weird but I didn’t think it was a curse, I thought it was,” and then he went pink and drew in a breath, started again.

“But after a while it started falling apart. Potter’s parents weren’t killed but they were still in the Order, and Potter just went to school in seventh year anyway, like he wouldn’t have been used to attack them? And -- and Dumbledore sort of just disappeared, and it was meant to be Zabini’s fault, but Zabini wasn’t even really involved in the war, he and his mother steered clear of it. And -- time started skipping, and at first I thought it was just going fast, but then I realised I couldn’t remember, I couldn’t remember what had happened in between certain things, and… ” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Once I realised it was fake it was too obvious. Everything was sort of half-done, half sketched in. Backgrounds faded when I wasn’t looking right at them.”

“You didn’t notice, Potter?” McGonagall said. Her voice was almost gentle.

Harry shook his head, looking away. He still couldn’t believe it: felt stupid and trapped by it. He drew in a breath, said, “I don’t understand. If it was a curse, it…” He stopped, cheeks hot, very conscious of Draco upright and horrified next to him. “I mean, my parents were alive. It wasn’t _bad_.”

“That is, we believe, the point of it,” McGonagall said. “The curse feeds you a fantasy, Mr Potter. It plays off your memories and it creates a world you’ll want to stay in, one that means you’ll never wake up to the real one. Why they wanted you to stay in it, that’s another question. We don’t know. We need to find them.”

“But if Malfoy knew it wasn’t real--”

McGonagall nodded. “The spell is only intended for one person,” she said. “When it backfired off you and hit Mr Malfoy as well it pulled him under. I imagine you two were perhaps… more in contact in the world of the curse, than in reality?”

Draco made a faint, shocked noise.

“You could say that,” Harry said dryly, unable to deny the humour of it despite himself. Him and _Draco Malfoy_. Christ. He could remember marrying Draco, could remember holding Draco’s hand and pledging himself. It had felt real. It still felt real.

Only now he remembered everything else about Draco. Remembered the truth. Remembered who Draco was, and what he had done.

“The spell would have bound you closely,” McGonagall said, “and created a shared world from both of your memories. It’s a clever piece of magic.” She sounded like Hermione, stern and interested at once. “It was only meant for one person, but once it had two it used both of you, both of your memories, both of your dreams. There would have been things there that you couldn’t have known on your own, weren’t there?”

Harry licked his lips. “The Ministry balls,” he said.

“My father’s arrest,” Draco said, low. He was staring at the ceiling now, something pained about his face, like a patient in the final throes of a long illness. Harry looked away again. It felt strange looking at Draco, like double vision.

“Exactly,” Professor McGonagall said. She hesitated. “And then there would probably have been things that didn’t appear because both of you weren’t amenable to it. Parts of your life that the other one couldn’t deal with.”

Harry blinked, confused, and then realised, the strange sense of missing that had been seeping through him for hours -- perhaps for weeks -- clarifying into one sharp, cruel point, and he looked at Draco again. This time, he knew, he was scowling.

“Hermione,” he said. “She and I weren’t -- we knew each other but we weren’t really… friends.”

“Yes,” McGonagall said, cold. “I imagine that would be Mr Malfoy’s mind, not yours.”

Harry glared at Draco, and then, to his surprise, Draco sent him a swift, venomous look back.

“Yes,” Draco said crisply. “I imagine it was. And it was his, then, that meant Pansy wasn’t there.”

Harry blinked. He’d had the vague sensation that Parkinson was about, but now he thought about it, she hadn’t been, not properly, not the way that Millicent Bullstrode and Blaise Zabini and even Crabbe and Goyle had; it was as though she was a blur, something Harry’s mind had tried to scrub away from the world of the curse.

“There you go, then,” Harry said, furious and exhausted at once. “Malfoy couldn’t deal with a Muggleborn, and I couldn’t deal with the girl who wanted to offer me up to Voldemort. Telling.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco hissed, and promptly went a dull pink. Harry could feel his face growing hot again, too. He tried not to make eye contact with McGonagall.

“Well,” McGonagall said, after a moment. “Well. Yes, there you go.”

Harry scrubbed his hand through his hair. His head hurt. He felt tired and cross and embarrassed, like all of his secret desires had been shown off to _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, and some desires that he hadn’t even had, that had been forced on him: Draco outside Hogsmeade, breathless and demanding, Draco diving into the murky green of the lake at Malfoy Manor, Draco coming down the stairs towards him with a kid on his hip and saying, “Well? How are the terrible Muggles?”

Harry blinked, shook his head, eyes clearing. It was all awful, all of it, but he could deal with it as long as he ignored the tiny, anguished howl deep in his chest. His mum and dad had been there. They’d been _right there_.

“Yes,” Draco said, making Harry snap back to reality and glance at him again. Malfoy was straight-backed, knees pointing towards the door. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and Harry noticed with a distant lack of interest that there were white gauze bandages wound round the centre of his palms. “ _Can_ we go?”

“Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall started, and then paused and sighed, taking her glasses off to press her fingers briefly against her closed eyes. “Yes. I’ve kept you both long enough. Remember to report back to Madame Pomfrey tomorrow. We’ll need to keep an eye on both of you for a little while to make sure there are no ill effects of the curse.”

Draco jumped up before she’d finished speaking, and Harry climbed tiredly to his feet as well. Then McGonagall said, “Wait. Mr Malfoy, just one more word before you leave, if you don’t mind,” and Draco turned around, eyes narrowed and furious.

“What,” he said. Harry had abruptly had enough of being in the same room as him; it felt claustrophobic.

“You don’t need me, Professor?” he said, and leapt for the door when McGonagall shook her head.

Outside, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were waiting, leaning against the hallway wall and talking in low, worried voices. They looked up as a group, relieved, when Harry appeared.

“All okay?” Ron said, eyes bright with concern.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Bit of a fucking nightmare,” he said. Ginny made a face at him and he made one back. When she moved in against his side she bumped her shoulder against his once, carefully, and then shuffled slightly away so there was a minute gap of space between them. Not enough of one that anyone would notice, except maybe Hermione and Ron, but they would be used to it. It was there all the time, these days.

For a moment _these days_ felt foggy, as though it had been years -- _nine years_ , Draco had said, crisp -- and not only three weeks since Harry was last awake and conscious of what was going on. Then he shook his head and it cleared again.

“I supposed McGonagall told you everything,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Hermione said, “but _you_ haven’t,” and Harry rubbed his hand across his eyes and started, as they shuffled down the hallway, to explain, in strange, halting words. He didn’t know what to say, or how much to say.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes bright with tears. “Your parents? Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and looked down. “But--”

“ _Out of my way_ ,” Draco snarled, and stalked past them, his shoulder slamming hard against Harry’s so that Harry bumped into Ginny, who bumped into Ron. All four of them looked up as Malfoy paced away, as fast as he could go without breaking into an outright run.

They watched him go. Harry felt somewhere between amused and furious, and couldn’t decide where exactly. It was like Snape with the Occlumency lessons, only a thousand times worse. Draco let loose in his head, all of the embarrassing moments of his youth with Draco now watching on, and worse, a thousand invented moments. Draco could see exactly what Harry had wanted: a family, a birthday party, something normal and mundane and beloved. It was so humiliating. And that was before Harry even got to all the teenage romance.

“McGonagall said,” Ron started, tentative, “that because Malfoy was hit by the curse he’d be in it too. The -- world, or whatever it was.”

“Yep,” Harry said.

“Wow,” Ginny said. “Harry, would you like a drink?”

“I really would,” Harry said. 

\---

There was a giant hole in the stone west wall of the Gryffindor Common Room smashed by Voldemort’s giants. It had been warded magically so no one could fall out and the elements couldn’t fall in, but the stone rebuilding work was tricky and it wasn’t yet finished. Gryffindors mostly used it to pick holes at the top and see if they could successfully flick balls of parchment at the first years during their flying lessons, but Harry quite liked it, the view he got over the the grounds, the lake and the bridge just visible. He’d gotten used to being able to stick his head out of the tent and see where they were. It was nice to have the option of a wide view from Gryffindor Tower. He, Ron, and Hermione had dragged a couple of the squashy couches over so they were grouped around it, and they sank into those now, watching the sun sinking down into the lake, purple-blue wavy ripples across it, dark patches in the deep. Harry rubbed his eyes.

“Here,” Ginny said, climbing over the back of the couch to settle in it cross-legged and handing him a bottle of Firewhiskey. “Drink up.”

Harry took it gratefully. The four of them sat quiet, watching the streaks of blue deepening over the sky. Hermione looked like she wanted to say things a couple of times, then shut her mouth, and Harry was grateful, didn’t really want to talk about any of it right now. But he’d missed Hermione, so after a while he stretched out a little awkwardly and put his head against her thigh. Hermione beamed down at him, her eyes bright.

“We were really worried about you,” she said, and Harry took her hand, squeezed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Well,” Hermione said, and laughed. “Well, that’s all right.”

Ginny was watching him, eyes dark. He’d curled his legs a little so that his feet didn’t touch her. After a moment she rolled her eyes, and he rolled his eyes back, and passed her the Firewhiskey.

They sat up for a long while. Every now and then one of the other Gryffindors came past, said something nervous and hopeful, and Harry smiled awkwardly back at them. He wasn’t used to many of the seventh years; in his year, it had only been Ron, and Hermione who had come back. With Ginny, they’d stuck close together. Luna and Dean were taking a year off, not ready, they said, to come back to school yet. The four of them were all that was really left of Dumbledore’s Army, and they hung close together. Sometimes Harry felt as though they didn’t really belong at Hogwarts anymore. People looked at him like they were surprised he was still there, or like he was another new ghost.

Ron and Hermione started yawning around two and finally stumbled off to bed. Harry rubbed his face, couldn’t help touching the scar again. It felt new, the shatter of it across his forehead, the tendril cutting off the end of one eyebrow. He looked up at Ginny, who was leaning against the sofa’s arm with her head tilted back, her long hair spilling down over the back, shirt falling to the side so he could see the curve of one bicep.

“I’m a bit drunk,” Ginny said thoughtfully to the ceiling.

“Mm,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure if he was: he felt dazed, as though he’d been sleepless for weeks. Madame Pomfrey had said that he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight; that it was a typical post-curse sympton. She’d given him a potion to drink that would put him in a light daze if he really needed it, but warned him off it. Harry was all right. He was used to tiredness. This one didn’t even feel that bad, compared to last year: sort of strange and soft, like he was floating.

He passed his hand over his eyes again, said, “Has it been really bad, the past few weeks?”

Ginny was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “It was difficult. The papers got hold of it, and then when that woman escaped... We were pretty sure you were going to wake up. But it was, you know, it was -- it’s not been good.”

Harry nodded, watching her. After a moment she shifted so they were facing each other on the couch, knees drawn up, feet just touching. “The papers got hold of it?” he said.

Ginny made a face. “You know what Hogwarts is like,” she said. “I think McGonagall was trying to control it a bit but it’s not like she could stop people telling outsiders what’s going on. I bet it’s already been reported that you’re awake again.”

“Probably,” Harry said, and added glumly, “Maybe they’ll decide I’m really weak. Or crazy again, or something.”

“Better than the cult stuff,” Ginny said, and Harry grimaced and nodded.

“Do you really think it’s Death Eaters?” he asked.

Ginny screwed her mouth to the side. “I mean, I think it’s most likely,” she said. “I don’t think anyone else has had time to organise. But the woman they caught didn’t have a Dark Mark, and she was… a different kind of crazy to the normal post-Voldemort nutters.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “How?”

“Mm,” Ginny said, yawning. “Dunno, really. Articulate. And quite calm. Almost apologetic, from what I heard, as though she didn’t want to bother the Ministry by being there. But, you know. She was only caught for about six hours.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, sighing. “God. So that’s something new to sort, I guess.”

Ginny smiled at him. “Wait until you’ve slept first, maybe.”

Harry laughed, then said, a little hesitant, “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said. She was pretty and tired in the dim light. There was a fifth year still frantically making notes in a candlelit alcove, so Harry didn’t say anything else, but after a moment he nudged his knee against hers, trying to remember how it had been when it had been easy to touch each other. Ginny almost flinched away, and Harry laughed. Ginny smiled ruefully, dropped her chin against her knees. She said, again, “Yeah.”

“It’d have been good if that had fixed it,” Harry said.

“Oh, yeah,” Ginny said. “Well. Maybe if I get cursed too?”

“I’d rather not try that out,” Harry said.

Ginny laughed and stood up, stretching her arms up for a moment, dropping her head from side to side to work out the cricks in her neck. “I’m for bed,” she said. “You coming?”

“In a little while, maybe,” Harry said, lying peaceably, and Ginny smiled at him and went to touch him again before she hesitated, hand hovering a centimetre over his head before it descended firmly. It was a nice touch, solid. It was just that every time Ginny looked at him she saw him dead. It was no one’s fault, really.

Harry didn’t sleep that night, but he still felt cocooned, foggy with exhaustion while the sky above Hogwarts went slowly pink.

\---

Over breakfast one of the school owls dumped _The Daily Prophet_ on Harry’s plate. Harry picked it up gingerly, shaking the scrambled eggs off its corner, and said, “Well, they haven’t gone the crazy route, at least.”

Hermione leaned over his shoulder. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “sometimes I actually miss Rita Skeeter. At least she was original.”

 _HARRY POTTER AWAKE AND RECOVERED: WIZARDING WORLD AWASH WITH RELIEF_ , the headline screamed. Underneath that, in smaller print, it said _DRACO MALFOY ALSO REPORTED WELL_ , and there was a picture of Harry leaving Draco’s trial, perhaps one of the few of them together that _The Daily Prophet_ had been able to find. The picture was focused on Harry, Hermione and Ron on either side of him as he emerged from the Wizengamot Chambers. He looked the same in all the photos taken shortly after the war: hair still too long and wild, slightly irritated, knackered. He hadn’t been able to sleep enough that summer. On days that he hadn’t had funerals or trials or meetings with Kingsley or McGonagall to attend he’d spent hours in bed, woken every day past midday and stumbled outside for an hour or two before he dozed off again in the long grass of Grimmauld Place’s backyard, had dinner with Hermione and Ron or Ginny or Neville and Luna and then was asleep again by nine. Ron had been worried about him, but Hermione said she thought it was natural. In any case Harry had managed to get on a slightly more regular sleeping schedule for school, although that was obviously blown again now.

In the background of the picture, just visible behind the members of the Wizengamot trailing out behind Harry and the reporters, was a slice of Draco Malfoy’s pale face, wide-eyed and still slightly shocked. He and his mother been acquitted to everyone’s surprise, even Harry’s, who had testified for them. Lucius had gone to Azkaban, Narcissa to Italy, and Draco disappeared for the rest of the summer. Harry hadn’t seen him again until they got to school, and even then they didn’t have much to do with each other.

Draco had come back to school worn and grey. He kept to himself. He stuck to the sides of walls and corners of rooms. He arrived early to classes and left late. He was so obsessed with keeping tabs on himself, restraining himself, that after the first few weeks of ugly comments and mini duels sparking up, everyone else stopped bothering. Harry had barely noticed him to start with.

Now, Harry looked up instinctively, but the Slytherin Table was half-empty as it had been all year, and Draco was not at it.

Ron followed his gaze and shrugged. “You said he was kicking up a fuss about his mum, right? Maybe he’s gone to see her.”

“Probably,” Harry said absently, “Narcissa must be--” He stopped, shook his head. “Yeah. Who knows. Who cares.”

“Right,” Ron said, with a slightly disbelieving look. Harry avoided it, looked back down at the _Daily Prophet_. Under the photo it said:

  * _Hogwarts celebrates: “We’re all so relieved he’s okay” (page 2)_
  * _Untouchable: Defense Against Dark Arts Expert Explains Why Potter Is Impervious (page 3)_
  * _A Loving Reunion: the exclusive story of Ginny Weasley’s tears, torment, and happy ending (page 4)_
  * _Draco Malfoy: Secret Anti-Voldemort Spy? Read all about the real reason he was targeted by Death Eaters (page 5)_



“Harry,” Ron said, “I think we should talk more about--”

“I think we should go to Charms,” Harry said firmly, and folded up the newspaper, set it aside. 

\---

Draco wasn’t in any of their classes that day. Harry was relieved.

Hermione watched him, sharp-eyed. “Harry,” she said, leaning over in Potions, “I think we should -- we should start working out what happened. What those guys wanted.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I thought you’d have that all sorted,” he said comfortably. “Come on, Hermione, I was unconscious for three weeks, wasn’t that long enough?”

Hermione flicked a couple of dead lacewings at him. Harry picked them out of his hair. He remembered, suddenly and vividly, his mum stroking his hair back from his forehead, making a face at him: “You know I love your hair,” she’d said, “but the less we give Petunia to sneer at, the better, my poor messy boy,” and James had laughed and started singing the Terrible Muggles song. Harry blinked.

“I’ve written to Shacklebolt asking if we can borrow a Ministry Pensieve,” Hermione said. “And then I want to show you the memory of when you were hit by the curse. Maybe you’ll recognise the attackers.”

“Isn’t there anything else?” Harry asked. “Didn’t the Ministry try and get a statement from the one they caught, or interrogate her, or anything?”

“They weren’t in custody long enough,” Ron said. “You know what the Ministry’s like right now. Dad says it takes two full working days for anyone to even decide who’s in charge of a particular case.”

Harry got a strange, unpleasant little shock in his stomach every time he looked at Ron, which was stupid, because Ron looked the same as he had all year. He was pale under his freckles, deep shadows under his eyes, and there was that new, thin scar down his cheekbone that he’d picked up in one of their skirmishes with the Snatchers. His eyes were blue and true as ever.

It was good that Ron looked like that, Harry thought vaguely. Or if not good, at least it was real.

Halfway through the class Slughorn looked up and tutted, said, “Late _again_!” Harry swung around instinctively but it was just a slightly apologetic looking Gryffindor.

Draco wasn’t at dinner, either. Harry sat next to Hermione and tried to keep up with conversation through the fog of exhaustion that was descending on him. Ginny sat opposite and didn’t say much, picking at her food, jaw set in a particularly stubborn and unhappy way.

“All right?” Harry said finally, and she looked up at him and winced, squinching her mouth in at the side.

“Yeah,” she said, and ran her hands through her hair, limp and a little dirty. “Sorry, yeah. Letter from Mum.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, and poked his fork awkwardly at his potatoes. “Is she--” He trailed off. Obviously Molly wasn’t okay.

Ginny’s gaze was tired and lonely. Under the table, her shoe nudged against his ankle, and then she whipped it away.

“Everyone’s going to be fine,” she said, firm like she was forcing herself to believe it.

\---

At breakfast the next morning Harry sat with his forehead propped against the heel of his hand. He was exhausted, another dazed night spent awake. He’d tried to go to bed, had stared for hours at the unwavering red canopy of his bed, until the sun came up and his dormmates started shuffling about, and Harry’s eyes were wide open and itchy because if he closed them he saw his dad grinning from the stands watching Harry’s Quidditch games. He felt heavy with exhaustion, weighed down. Ginny smiled at him when he joined the table but after he looked at her she looked away, face pale, and Ron and Hermione were quiet on his left. Harry was ugly with tiredness.

When the doors banged open he looked up because everyone else did, watched absently as the two second year Slytherin girls came hurrying over the stones towards their table, heads tilted close and whispering.

The doors creaked open again, less dramatic now, but everyone was already looking. Harry knew who would come through before he even emerged, but it still settled through him like a shock. Draco stepped neatly, sharply through the doors, robes hanging loose on thin shoulders, and crossed the stones of the Great Hall with his head ducked low and his gaze trained furiously on the floor. The same as all year.

More people were watching him, now, and whispering, and people were darting curious looks back at Harry. Draco didn’t look over at the Gryffindor table. He sat, hunched and alone, at the far end of the already mostly empty Slytherin table, and even the other Slytherins stayed away from him.

His face was grey and waxy with exhaustion, too. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises, like stains in wax, like someone had pressed their thumbs in and dragged. Harry knew how he felt.

After a long, still moment in the hall, Daphne Greengrass’s little sister in fifth year scooted up the bench and said something to Draco. He turned his face to her, still, the fall of his hair hiding his expression.

Harry looked back down at his porridge.

“Fancy the Cannons’ chances this year, Harry?” Ron said loudly. “I really think they’ve got a shot this time.”

“Their -- chaser is doing really well,” Hermione agreed, at the top of her voice, with the vaguely panicked expression of someone who could only remember two Quidditch positions.

Ginny shifted, very slightly, so that she blocked Harry from view for a good part of the table. Harry stared at her soft, rumpled hair and wished for a strange, aching moment that they still knew how to touch each other. All he wanted was to very quietly lay his face along the tender line of someone’s neck, and have them touch his hair.

He spent the whole day overly-sensitive to Draco’s presence in their classes. It seemed ridiculous that nobody else was looking, as though Draco was on fire in the corner of the room, painful and overwhelming and drawing in heat and light, but everyone else kept to themselves. Whenever Harry glanced over, Draco wasn’t looking at him. He was different to how Harry expected him to be, too, like everyone here was: shorter, shoulders slumped, worn down. He didn’t smile once. Harry started to wonder if it had been part of the curse’s fantasy that he even _could_.

After a while, Harry stopped looking.

\---

“If I’m honest,” Hermione said, frowning, “I’m still not entirely sure I get the point of a curse like that.”

Harry shrugged. “McGonagall said the whole thing was to make it like -- so good you wouldn’t want to wake up.” He looked away from where Ron was watching him sharply, almost knowing. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” Hermione said, “but surely there would be easier ways to do that. Something that felt like a nice deep sleep, or - or a massage, or something.”

“Really good sex,” Ron put in helpfully. Hermione rolled her eyes and Harry kept his face very consciously as still as it could be. For a moment he thought of Draco’s fingers sliding along Harry’s collarbone, pale against Harry’s dark skin, and then he wrenched his mind away.

“In any case,” Hermione said, “there’d be plenty of ways to make you _stay_ there. I don’t understand why they’d have to come up with something so _elaborate_.”

Harry shrugged. “But it was me who was doing the actual work,” he said. “I mean. McGonagall said the curse works on your own memories.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Ginny crawled through the portrait into the Common Room, rubbing her neck. “Oof,” she said. “Hi, you lot. You all right, Harry?”

Harry blinked at her. “In general?”

“Apparently Malfoy had a full on fit in Astronomy,” Ginny said, nodding vaguely up towards the Astronomy Tower. “Some kid bumped into him and he started shouting like mad. Said he was going to tell his _father_ , like it was third year again, and then he freaked out and left class. Luna wrote and told me,” she added, “because some of her weird Ravenclaw spies told _her_. And Luna has some theories about the curse too, Harry.”

Hermione rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Save us,” she said. Harry grinned at her.

“Every now and then Luna gets it exactly right, though,” he said. “Thanks, Gin. I’m all right.”

Ginny grinned, throwing herself into an armchair and tipping her head back so her hair spilled bright over the headrest. “Good to hear. You excited your best mate is around again?”

Harry said, trying hard to keep his voice even, “Ron was still my best mate.”

“Seems unfair that Hermione was the only one who didn’t get to hang out with you in the fun fantasy world,” Ron said, shuffling through his bag for parchment. Harry and Hermione exchanged amused looks. “It’d be nice to have a world where we all just got to have a nice, quiet couple of school years.” He paused, then added, “Not sure if it would have been worth having to hang out with Malfoy in it, though.”

“Hermione was busy saving the world with Neville,” Harry said. “I don’t think I can imagine her not busy fixing things. Even with a curse.”

Hermione fluffed her hair, looking a little pleased and trying to hide it. “In any case, it wasn’t your fault,” she told Harry. “And I’m almost glad. I wouldn’t like to know there was any world where I’d just put up with all of Malfoy’s -- _Malfoyness_.”

“He couldn’t have been as bad as normal,” Ginny said, “if you were really friends with him in the dream. Right, Harry? The curse must have turned him… down a little, or something.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He palmed restlessly at his forehead, his hair. “I can’t really remember.”

“That’s good,” Hermione said bracingly. “Just let the -- the dream fade and then you’ll feel good as new.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t tell her that it was the real world that was hard to remember; that it was hard to think of _Malfoy’s Malfoyness_ , to remember what had carried over into the curse and what hadn’t. He thought of Draco laughing up at him in fourth year while Ron danced with McGonagall, the last few months before Draco’s growth spurt kicked in and he was taller than Harry.

He didn’t think any of them felt new anymore, anyway.

\---

At three in the morning Hermione came down into the Common Room, put her hand on Ron’s shoulder. Ron stirred, mumbling something blearily up at her, and Hermione turned her quiet sleepy face down to him and kissed him, short and sure. Ron said, voice thick, “Mione.”

“Go to bed,” she said. “I’m up now.”

Ron stumbled up to his feet, lifting a hand over his shoulder and disappearing up to the Boys Dormitory. Harry said, “You two don’t need to sit up with me, you know.”

There was cold prickling down over his shoulders. He couldn’t remember what it felt like to fall asleep. He couldn’t remember how to get there. His head was aching.

Hermione settled into the couch next to him and said, “I wanted to go over my Potions notes again before tomorrow, anyway.”

Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away, but Harry smiled at her anyway. “Oh, did you.”

“We’re not leaving you alone, Harry,” Hermione said, very matter of fact, and Harry swallowed and nodded.

Hermione shuffled through her notes and dozed a little, her head drooping forward, her shoulder against Harry’s. Ron had kept his hand on Harry’s knee, solid and comforting. It was like it had been just after the Battle again, the two of them touching him as much as they could. He didn’t mind it.

“Here, look over these proofs with me,” Hermione said, but if that was an attempt to bore Harry to sleep it didn’t work. After a while despite her best efforts, Hermione fell asleep too, snuffling on his shoulder. Harry sat quiet so as not to disturb the piles of notes and books they were covered in by then and watched the dawn come up on a third sleepless night.

Ginny came downstairs early, before the general rush for breakfast. Harry tried to smile at her but she looked absent and far away, and she stood for a moment at the break in the Common Room’s wall, gazing out over it. Then she said, voice strange, “Did -- was Fred alive in your dream?” and Harry felt something catch in his throat. He swallowed it down.

“Everyone was,” he said. Ginny made an ugly noise, and neither of them looked at each other.

Harry felt as though he carried the dull exhaustion and pain with him down to breakfast, like it was a heavy pack he was lugging around for no real reason. The light in the Great Hall seemed grey, uninteresting. Harry poked at his breakfast without much interest.

Then Draco dropped onto the bench beside him, sitting sideways and dropping his forehead against Harry’s shoulder.

“Merlin,” he moaned, steadying himself with a hand on Harry’s leg. Harry’s hand went up automatically, caught the back of Draco’s neck, keeping him there. “I’m _so tired_. I can’t even _think_ anymore--”

“You need to turn your head off,” Harry said, amused. “Can’t keep it rattling along, you’re keeping yourself up--”

“Oh, that’s very easy for _you_ to do,” Draco said haughtily, “you’ve only got about two thoughts to rub together. Some of us have things on our mind.”

“You do, do you?” Harry said, grinning down at him, and Draco rolled his cheek to the side, smiled sleepily up at Harry. His hair was touseled, the shadows under his eyes so deep that Harry wanted to drag him upstairs and push him into bed, lie on top of him until he stopped squirming and complaining and just dropped off to sleep like that, safe and sound beneath Harry. “Tell me more, tell me all these great and important thoughts that are keeping you up--”

“Oh, Harry, some of them have more than two syllables,” Draco said, “I couldn’t possibly explain,” and Harry laughed at him, Draco’s eyes bright and pleased. He was so good, all close and warm, and then Harry’s eyes dropped down to the hand Draco had on his thigh and he frowned, catching at Draco’s wrists, pulling his arms up so he could stare at the white gauze wrapped neatly around the middle of Draco’s palms.

“What have you done to your hands?” he said, stroking his thumbs smooth over the pulse point in Draco’s wrists.

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione finally breathed, as though she couldn’t help it.

“What?” Harry said, fingers running along the warm line of Draco’s arm, his shoulder, and then he froze. Draco went still, too. Harry dared to look up. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and most of the rest of the school were staring at him in disbelief.

“Er,” Harry said.

Draco ripped himself away in one smooth motion and took off nearly at a run, half-tripping on his way out the Great Hall doors.

Harry’s face was hot. Something horrible was crawling down his spine. The school, as one, looked fairly shocked. Harry swallowed, and repeated, “Er.”

Ginny burst into a wild shriek of laughter. Ron put his face down on his arms, shoulders shaking and gasping for breath through his own hysterics. Hermione rolled her eyes, but was having trouble biting back a smile.

“ _Well_ ,” she said.

“Look,” Harry said, a little desperately. “Look -- it was the curse--”

“Stop, stop, I can’t breathe,” Ginny said, and slid off her seat to lie half under the table, almost choking on her own glee.

“Oh my god,” Harry said, glaring at all three of them. “Can we at least - go talk about this somewhere else? Somewhere where everyone isn’t staring at us?”

“Do you want to go find Malfoy and cuddle again?” Ron managed, wheezing for air, and then gave into laughter again, resting his head against an indulgent Hermione.

Harry folded his arms and glared. “I hate you guys.”

\---

“So,” Ginny said, pink with amusement, “when you said that you and Malfoy were a _little bit closer_ in the other - world or whatever--”

Harry groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “I didn’t know how to - how to tell you guys--”

“That you were dream making out with Malfoy,” Hermione said, and then, “Oh, Ron, honestly,” as Ron slid back down to the floor.

“I can’t help it,” Ron gasped, “it’s _so funny_. Hermione, don’t you think it’s funny?”

Hermione said, “Well,” and Harry glared at her. She rolled her eyes, smiling, and said, “I don’t know why you didn’t just tell us, Harry.”

“It was - weird,” Harry said. “I don’t know. And, you know.” He glanced guiltily over at Ginny.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, still grinning, “honestly, it’s fine, when a weird magic curse is making you do it, I don’t really consider it cheating. It’s almost a relief, really,” she added.

“It is?” Harry said, bewildered, because Hermione was nodding along.

“Yeah, I mean, I was trying to work out what it was that would make you want to be friends with Malfoy,” Ginny said. “I couldn’t understand it. But if it’s just that you guys got shoved into a magic curse world that made you _have_ to pay attention to each other -- I mean, more attention than usual -- and - and--”

“Newly realised bisexuality,” Hermione put in, with a tinge of smugness that Harry personally thought was unnecessary.

“Exactly,” Ginny said, and started laughing again. “You were just - just finding a way to experiment, oh - oh, I can’t--”

“Harry,” Ron said, grinning from ear to ear, “Harry, please tell me Malfoy’s got a funny dick. Say it’s got a weird - bend or something. Make my day, I’m begging you--”

“Speaking of bisexuality,” Hermione said, _sotto voce_.

“You don’t get to work _everything_ out, Granger,” Ron said, winking, though that wasn’t really a contradiction, Harry thought.

“Well,” Harry said, and ran a hand through his hair. The embarrassment wasn’t great, but it was better than the sick, ashamed feeling he’d been carrying around for three days. “Well. That’s good then, I suppose. You - you guys really don’t think it’s weird? I thought. I thought you’d be mad.”

“Oh, it’s so weird,” Ron said, beaming at him. “But I get how it kind of makes sense. I mean, you guys _hate_ each other. If a curse was going to make you spend time together it’d have to come up with something new.”

“Orgasms probably work quite nicely,” Ginny agreed, rolling her eyes when Ron instinctively covered his ears. “Harry, is this why you haven’t been sleeping? Are you freaking out?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Are you worried you’re going to have a - a--” Ron gave up, pressing his face into Hermione’s hair and wheezing with subsumed delight. Harry would be more annoyed, but it was the happiest he’d seen Ron in a while.

“Poor curse Ginny,” Ginny said, grinning widely. “Beaten by Malfoy.”

“Oh, you were all right,” Harry said. “You were with Neville.”

“Neville?” Ginny blinked, laughed in a confused, startled sort of way. “What? That’s a bit random.”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged. “Neville was -- well, he was the one who was fighting Voldemort, he was the one in the prophecy, so Hermione was helping him and...”

Ron raised his head, eyebrows shooting up and laughter dying on his face. Hermione shot Harry a warning look that made him trail off. Ginny was standing still in front of him, her head cocked to the side.

“That’s interesting,” she said coolly. “So I was with Neville because he was the Chosen One, was I?”

“No,” Harry said, panicked. “I mean. I don’t know! I don’t know how it worked, I just--”

“And I’m with you because you’re the Chosen One too, right?” Ginny continued, very easily, as though she was discussing Gryffindor’s Quidditch chances that year, though she wasn’t smiling at all. “Because that’s all I’m after?”

“Um,” Ron said. “Maybe we’ll just--”

“Yes,” Hermione said, tugging his arm, and even though Harry shot them a pleading look they scuttled backwards and round a corridor, leaving Harry and Ginny alone. They were standing apart, a gap of space between them like always, only this time it felt charged, furious. Ginny was still pink, but it wasn’t with humour anymore.

“Ginny,” Harry said, “look, it wasn’t anything _I_ thought. The curse--”

“The curse takes your memories, and your thoughts, and creates a believable fiction out of them, right? That’s what Hermione said. And for you, it’s believable that if Neville was the Boy Who Lived, he’s who I’d be after. Because that’s all I want you for.”

Harry licked his lips. “You had a crush on me before we even met--”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Ginny hissed, eyes narrowing.

“No! Listen, I don’t know how it - how it worked properly, how it picked bits--”

“It seems pretty clear cut to me,” Ginny said, arms folded. She was almost shaking with fury. “Merlin. I can’t believe that’s what you think of me--”

“I don’t!”

“-- that you think I only _want_ you because of some terrible past, some awful destiny--”

“I don’t,” Harry snapped. “Pretty clearly you don’t want me at all,” and Ginny went white as though he’d slapped her.

“You know what,” she snarled, “I don’t like this game where it’s all -- oh, poor sweet Ginny, she can’t _handle_ what happened to you, when you can’t handle it either! You’re _fucked up_ about the war, Harry, and I’m sick of you giving me these stupid sympathic looks like you completely get why I’m freaked out about - about what happened and you’re just patiently waiting, when you’re _just as crazy_ , Harry! You didn’t get away scot free!”

“I know that!” Harry bellowed, temper snapping. “I know I’m not! Who says I am!”

“It’s fucking _convenient_ for you that I - that I don’t know what to do!” Ginny yelled. “You don’t know what to do either! You and Ron and Hermione are all _weird_ about each other now, and when you do touch me you look like you’re worried we’re going to be attacked!”

“When you touch me you look like I’m going to _infect_ you! Like I’m an inferi or something, like I’m not real anymore, like I’m _dead_ \--”

“ _You were dead_!” Ginny shrieked.

They stood breathless and staring at each other, the corridor silent around them. Harry felt dizzy with everything, overwhelmed. Ginny’s eyes were dark with fury. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her now, and couldn’t bring himself to move. There was something gnawing and anxious, sick in the pit of his belly.

“I know that,” Harry said finally. His voice sounded very calm, he was vaguely surprised to notice. “Thanks very much for reminding me, but actually, I was there. So.”

Ginny laughed bitterly. “Yeah, thanks,” she said. “Awesome. We were both there, then. Listen, I’m going to go - be somewhere else. So why don’t you just - I don’t know - go feel tormented about stuff some more. Hey, I bet you think that _I_ think that’s really sexy, right?”

“Ginny,” Harry said, low.

“I’m -- I’ll see you later,” Ginny said. “Or not. Whatever. Give my regards to Malfoy,” she added, sneering, and because Harry’s life had been a ridiculous series of _shit_ for eight years and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, that was when Draco said, frostily, “Excuse me.”

“Jesus,” Harry said, and glared at Draco. “Not now, okay?”

Ginny was laughing again, humourless and mean this time. “No, that’s fine,” she said. “That’s perfect, actually. You kids have fun.” She shot a last glare at Harry and then turned sharply on her heel, striding off towards her Charms class. Harry stared helplessly after her, ran a hand through his hair.

“Dreadfully sorry to interrupt,” Draco said, venom dripping from his voice. “But Madame Pomfrey wants to see both of us.”

“So good of you to come fetch me,” Harry snapped. “You ever learn to stop poking your nose in where you’re not wanted?”

“I got _sent_ down here,” Draco said, face white with anger. “If you think I’d ever choose to be in your company -- as if I haven’t had enough of you, no matter how much you want to feel me up--”

“Oh, yeah, you came and crawled all over me half an hour ago but I’m the obsessive one.” Harry folded his arms, glaring.

Draco snarled, “I was the one who _broke the curse_ , Potter. It wasn’t _me_ who would have stayed in it forever--”

“As if--”

“You begged me not to,” Draco said, lip curling, face vivid with hatred. “Do you remember that? Did you manage to block it out the way you did everything else? You said, ‘please, don’t talk about it’--”

“Shut _up_ ,” Harry snarled.

“‘Please, Draco’,” Draco mimimicked, voice high and whining. “‘Don’t, I need them’--”

“ _Shut_ up,” Harry said, and shoved Draco hard; he hadn’t even realised they were standing so close together, nearly panting with fury, Draco glaring down at him. Draco wasn’t as tall as he’d been in the curse but he was tall enough, could work his height over Harry when he was trying like this, and Harry caught Draco’s sleeve and shoved him back against the wall and then realised, abruptly, that he had no idea what he was doing.

He took three quick steps back. Draco stared at him, breathing hard.

“Madame Pomfrey,” Harry said, voice strained.

“Yes,” Draco said immediately, and shoved up off the wall and set off for the Hospital Wing. Harry stared tiredly at the line of his back and followed.

\---

“Honestly, you boys,” Madame Pomfrey scolded. “How long were you going to grimly wait out _not sleeping_?”

“I came and told you half an hour ago,” Draco said, glowering. “Only you made me go fetch stupid Potter.”

“Well, Mr Potter should know better,” Madame Pomfrey said, giving Harry the kind of look that seemed to somehow say _I know you only died and came back to life to disappoint me, but nevertheless, you have succeeded_. “Three days!”

“You said we should expect some disrupted sleep,” Harry began weakly.

“ _Disrupted_. Not nonexistant,” Madame Pomfrey said, and handed each of them a vial of glowing green liquid. “There. Go to bed right away, the both of you. I’ll write your Professors a note excusing you.”

“But I have Potions today,” Draco said, frowning, “and I’m already behind--”

“Mr Malfoy, in this state you could very well blow up the castle,” Madam Pomfrey said. “To bed at once, or I shall keep you both here and make you sleep under observation.”

Harry turned hurriedly to leave the room, Draco jostling his elbow as they slipped out the door together. Harry turned for the Gryffindor Tower, then stopped when he heard, “Potter.”

He turned around. Draco was staring fixedly at Harry’s left ear, pale like he was confessing to a terrible crime. “I was - exhausted.”

“What?” Harry said blankly.

“This _morning_ ,” Draco said. “I was exhausted. That’s why I - came over and--”

“I know,” Harry said. “Why d’you think I let you?”

“Well, I just - I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any - misunderstanding,” Draco said, and then added, sneering, “You can tell the little Weaslette that. She didn’t seem very _happy_.”

“Get your mouth off Ginny,” Harry said coldly. “If you think I’m having misunderstandings about you, you’re wrong. I don’t think anything about you at all, ever. You’re nothing.”

He didn’t wait to hear Draco’s reply before he went up to the Gryffindor Tower. He went and sat on his bed before he drank the potion, still shaking with fury, and then he was glad that he had; barely a second passed before he was collapsing back onto his bed, dark crawling over his vision, shoes still on.

\---

When Harry woke up the light in the Gryffindor Dormitory was red and golden with the dusk, dust motes drifting through the last late sunbeams. He lay on his side and watched them, cheek against his pillow. He hadn’t dreamt about anything at all, just deep soundless sleep, and now his body felt heavy and sweet with it, like the time when they went to the sea and he swam all day and then could barely move and his dad had to lift him into his arms and carry him back to the tent even though he was eleven by then, like the time that hadn’t happened.

He lay quiet until the dark settled properly over the castle, drowsy and mostly content. For a little while he took out the Marauders’ Map and studied it; then he went downstairs to the Common Room, where Ron and Hermione were sitting and talking quietly with an enormous box shoved between them. They looked up when Harry arrived.

“All right, Harry?” Hermione said cautiously. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” Harry said. He knuckled at the sleep in one eye, yawning. “I’ll probably go back to bed in a bit.”

Hermione looked relieved. Ron said, “Brought you a sandwich, mate, you missed dinner.”

“Mm,” Harry said, settling down and taking a bite, and then nodded at the box. “What’s that?”

“Kingsley sent it,” Hermione said, looking very pleased. “It’s the Pensieve.” Ron shot her a look and she added quickly, “But there’s no rush, Harry, if you’re not--”

“No,” Harry said, pleased. Here was something to _do_. “I want to see it.”

In the corner of the room, Ginny was in furious conversation with Demelza Robins, pointedly not looking in his direction.

Well, if she didn’t want to talk to Harry, Harry didn’t want to talk to her. He turned his attention to where Hermione was busily setting up the Pensieve on the small table. It was different to the one Harry remembered: not so large, not so intricate. This one was like a silver mixing bowl on an odd coppery dais, curling pieces of gold and iron coming up from around it at slightly alarming angles. Hermione read over Kingsley’s letter and nodded firmly.

"Well, it seems quite straightforward," she said. "Memories, you two."

Ron reached obligingly for his wand. Harry said, "Uh, Hermione. I don't - I don't really remember it that clearly--"

"Of course not," Hermione said, business like, which was always much more reassuring than her occasional efforts to be soothing. "But Ron and I do, and yours will just - flesh it out a little. Come on, then."

Harry tried. The stream of silver he pulled from his head was thin and wispy, half heartedly trying to curl back in on itself. He'd become familiar with using Pensieves in the Ministry trials after the Battle, and this was just a small, pathetic scrap of a thing. It was too long ago. It was too unwanted. He dumped it in the Pensieve with an annoyed flick of his wrist.

Hermione and Ron didn't appear to care. Hermione said, "Well, um, Harry, do you want to look alone?"

"Nah, its fine," Harry said, smiling. "One for all, right?" and Hermione grinned at him while Ron looked mildly baffled. There was just enough space for the three of them to crowd round it, shoulders jostling.

“Keep an eye on us, will you, Ginny?" Ron said.

Ginny gave him an angry little huff, which was not exactly a no. Harry drew in a breath, gripped Hermione's wrist, and let Ron drag them both in, then stood blinking in the fourth floor corridor.

They were surrounded by the bustle of students after class, passing seamlessly through them, and the dull roar of thirty different conversations going on around them. Hermione made a face, shaking back her shoulders as a third year Hufflepuff dropped his books right through her.

"I can never get used to it," she said. "Right, here we come."

Sure enough, round the corner came Harry, Ron and Hermione. They were moving relatively slowly, and Harry was slightly startled to realise that he looked even more tired than he did right now. The physical exhaustion wasn't the same, but his shoulders were slumped, his gaze slightly dull. He looked bored, and unhappy.

Hermione and Ron seemed to notice it too. They looked at him uneasily. Ron clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder and Harry leaned against him, the only solid thing in this place.

"Well," Hermione said, and cleared her throat. "Come on, let's follow," and they trailed alongside their past selves.

"I just think we can leave that sort of stuff to the Ministry," past Hermione was saying, frowning.

"Oh, because they've been so useful all these years," past Harry snapped.

"Well, but Kingsley's in charge now," Hermione said, and added hastily, "and Ron's dad says it's much better, and they're putting in all these new systems for accountability too."

"Yeah," past Ron said. He looked uneasy. "I don't know, though, ’Mione. It was - it was pretty easy for Voldemort to take over when he wanted--"

"I know, and of course there's miles and years to go," Hermione said sharply. "If you both recall I’d rather like to be involved in fixing that! But I _do_ think they can be trusted with rounding up the last of the Snatchers. Harry, there'll be plenty of work to do as an Auror when we've finished this year--"

"It's pointless being here," past Harry said, glaring at a passing Ravenclaw who scuttled out of their way. "I don't know why we bothered. We don't belong here anymore."

"Merlin," Harry said, staring. "I'm not that cranky all the time, am I?"

"Here comes Malfoy," Ron said, and Harry looked instinctively.

Draco was walking along the corridor from the opposite direction. He was alone, as always, his pale pointed face turned down, his shoulders hunched. _He_ didn't look so different to now, just as defensive, just as frightened, just as lonely. Harry's heart thudded hard.

He glanced back at their past selves, expecting to see himself watching, but the past Harry didn't appear to have noticed Draco. Draco noticed Harry, skirting round closer to the wall so he could pass by them, but past Harry just stumped along, arguing in a low voice with Hermione.

"Here," Hermione said, and pointed. "Look."

Harry did, but it still took an effort, even through the memory. The two strangers making their way down the corridor clearly didn't belong there, dark wizarding trousers of heavy linen and shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows, but practically no one looked at them. Those who did flicked their gazes away immediately, unconcerned.

"Notice-Me-Not charms," Ron said grimly.

"Strong ones, too, to work that well in Hogwarts," Hermione said. "The castle doesn't like people trying to deceive it. I doubt they'd have stood up to McGonagall or even Flitwick but look, they were clever, they came in between classes when there were loads of people in the corridors."

"Yeah," Harry said, watching. “No Dark Marks. But they look Pureblood.”

They looked alike, too, a man and a woman, dark hair and smiling mouths. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if they were siblings. They moved easily through the crowds, wands out, eyes searching. When they spotted past Harry they exchanged looks and grinned.

But past Harry was looking, too; his eyes had narrowed, roving over the space where they should be. He frowned. He said, "Ron--"

"I forgot this," Hermione said, startled. "You spotted them."

"Right," Harry said, not liking the uncertainty in Hermione’s look, that odd emotion that was uncomfortably close to awe, "well--"

"Hang on," past Harry said loudly, cutting Harry off. Past Harry moved forward fast, his shoulder banging against Draco's, who glanced over at him, eyes wide and startled. Past Harry said, "Something's not -- right." His eyes were bright, his whole face coming alight.

The two strangers elbowed each other and raised their wands. They shouted something that didn't sound like a word as much as a note, a bright burst of a chord, and blue light jetted forward from their wands, sparking around the outside, like a tiny, perfectly contained storm. But the past Harry was already moving, darting fast to the side, shoving Draco Malfoy at his shoulder with him. He raised his wand and shouted, " _Stupefy_!"

Past Harry's reflexes were good - he even caught the woman with his _stupefy_ , who toppled immediately to the ground, tripping over her companion. But he hasn't noticed the suit of armour behind him, already raising a gleaming shield to defend itself, and the spells bounced cleanly off it, hurtling back towards Harry and Draco.

It caught Harry high up, sinking into the line of his jawline, and its twin got Draco square in the back. The two of them fell.

Past Ron let out a sharp cry, moving towards them; past Hermione pointed her wand and shouted, " _Petrificus totalus_!" and the male stranger ducked out of the way. The spell caught a window, shattering it and sending the hall into chaos. The wizard ran for it, elbowing students out of his way, ducking curses and disappearing around the corner while Ron and Hermione went chasing after. Students were screaming; professors flocked out of their classrooms and into the hall.

The real Ron caught Harry's elbow. "That's the last of it, really," he said. "They took you and Malfoy to the Hospital Wing and the woman to the Ministry before she escaped. Shall we?"

Harry nodded numbly, taking Hermione’s hand, and the three of them rose up through the levels of the memory and back into the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Well," Ron said.

Hermione was frowning down at the Pensieve.

"That was useless," Harry said, and raised his voice a bit for the benefit of Ginny, who was scowling on the other side of the room and pretending not to listen. "Nothing new there except their faces, but I don't recognise them. Sorry, guys."

"I think we're missing something," Hermione said. "It was - odd."

"You just think that ‘cos it didn't explain everything," Ron said. "Anyway, it _is_ odd. We don't know why they did it. But I don't think that memory's going to tell us."

"I'm going to take another look," Hermione decided. "Are you two coming?"

Harry shook his head. "I've heard enough of me being a berk for one night." Across the room, Ginny coughed loudly and in a suspiciously amused way.

"I'm going in," Hermione said. "Keep an eye on me, will you?"

Ron and Harry set up a game of chess, because it was a little creepy to just watch Hermione submerged up to her shoulders. When she emerged ten minutes later she was still frowning, shaking her head at the looks they gave her.

"I don't know," she said. "I guess it's straightforward. Oh, I wish we could follow those two, see where they came from, what they talked about before they got to us."

Harry shrugged. "Limits of a memory," he said.

"I could just kill the Ministry for not thinking to extract a memory," Hermione raged. "It was almost better when they were evil, at least they got things _done_!"

Ron raised his eyebrows at her.

Hermione flushed. "You know what I mean," she said.

"Don't move your bishop there, Harry, it’s check," Ron said.

Harry, with great pleasure, remembered his sandwich and began to eat it.

\---

He'd been worried he wouldn't be able to sleep again, particularly after spending most of the day unconscious, but around ten he began to get normally, deliciously sleepy, and at eleven he and Ron trudged yawning up the stairs. Harry fell asleep slowly, surely, like descending stairs into a warm fog, and dreamed of his mum's thirty-third birthday, when his dad threw a surprise party and Lily was so startled she cursed half the guests.

He woke up grinning, and then the grin faded, but he still accidentally smiled and winked at Draco when he came into the Great Hall for breakfast. It wasn't a great start to the day.

The day didn't continue well, either. Draco was in a lot of Harry's classes and it was hard to ignore him. Harry's body wouldn't even if his mind tried. It was as though the curse had driven Draco into Harry's muscle memory, so that he kept looking up and catching Draco’s eyes; it felt strange and _wrong_ to not be sitting next to Draco in class. When Slughorn went on a particularly ridiculous ramble listing the various contacts he had in the Ministry -- the good ones, of course, none of those fellows who, well -- Harry looked up and rolled his eyes at Draco and the heavens. Draco made a stupid face back at him, and then, frowning, a nasty one. Harry looked away, face hot. He felt stupid and embarrassed.

Over lunch, Ron said, "You know, Malfoy keeps smiling at me? I think he might be ill."

Something miserable curdled in Harry's stomach and he looked away. Ginny was watching him across the table, quiet and thoughtful. She didn't smile but she didn't look as pissed, either.

"Maybe," Hermione said, "but I've been thinking you should talk to him, Harry."

"What?" Harry said, distracted; Ginny was still looking at him, eyes grave. "Why?"

"You should ask him about the wizards who attacked you," Hermione said impatiently. "Maybe he knows something. I have a picture, look," and she dug out a crumpled clipping from _The Daily Prophet_ , the pair smirking out from the shadows of a Ministry holding cell and a blaring headline. _DO YOU KNOW THESE WIZARDS?_

"I'm sure McGonagall already asked him," Harry said.

"Yes, but maybe he hasn't seen a picture, or maybe he's remembered something new!" Hermione said brightly. "Or - oh, Harry, you should offer to show him the memory!"

"I'm not doing anything like that," Harry said, voice tight. "Far as I'm concerned I'm not going to speak to him ever again."

Hermione gave him a searching look but said only, "Fine. Then I'll talk to him."

"Fine!" Harry said, shoulders hunched, spearing a potato.

"Good," Hermione said calmly. At the end of lunch, good as her word, she went over to the Slytherin table, ignoring all the odd looks she got, and sat next to Draco and the Greengrass girl, both of whom looked shocked and vaguely ill.

Harry stood up. "Late for Charms," he mumbled, and went for the door. Ron, looking very torn, followed him.

It didn't take long for Hermione to catch up with them in any case, looking a bit flustered and tucking her hair behind one ear.

"Well, that was a waste of time," she said.

Ron drew her in close with an arm around her shoulders. "No joy?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, and sniffed, nose pointed up in the air, adding, "I forget what a terribly unpleasant little boy he is."

Something cold spread through Harry's chest. "What did he say to you?"

"Oh, nothing," Hermione said. Then she looked at Harry and said firmly, "Nothing, Harry."

"I want to know," Harry said, quite calmly.

"Mate," Ron said uneasily, "if we let every little thing Malfoy ever said get to us we'd never get anything done--"

"It's not anything," Hermione said, frowning at Harry. "Honestly, he doesn't bother me at all. As if what Malfoy says matters."

"Right," Harry said, and swung around in his path. "You guys go on."

"Harry!" Hermione said.

"No, it's fine," Harry called over his shoulder, steps speeding up. "I'll catch up with you - tell Flitwick I'll be five minutes--"

He shouldered his way through the groups of people meandering their way out of the Great Hall. He felt very sure. When he saw a white-blonde head making its way down to the dungeons he sped up again, shoving past a group of third years and shouting, "Malfoy! Hey, Draco!"

Draco turned, face pale and gleaming. Harry could feel his own expression doing something strange. He wanted to grin. He wanted to spit. It felt good, Draco’s attention all on him for the first time in too long.

"What," Draco said. "Can't you and your little friends leave me alone?"

Harry was near enough now. He closed the last space between them with a joyful stride and shoved Draco hard, sending him stumbling back. Harry followed, shoved him again, watched the satisfying impact of Draco's back hitting the wall and said, "Don't you dare be rude to Hermione."

"I'll do what I like," Draco said, eyes shiny, "and keep your hands off me, Potter," and he shoved Harry back. "Call off your dogs and--"

"Don't you dare," Harry said, bristling up in Draco's personal space. "Don't you talk about her like that! She's worth ten of you!"

"Excuse me," Draco said, drawling out the words with impeccable cruelty, "if I don't really care about the worth of a Mu--"

Harry punched him in the face.

Draco yelped, head jerking back, and then bared his bloody teeth and went for Harry. He got Harry in a headlock, using his height, practically flaunting it, and they staggered across the stretch of stone, Draco twisting Harry's hair hard enough it brought tears to Harry's eyes, Harry snarling and twisting awkwardly to thump Draco in the stomach.

The third punch caught Draco square in the solar plexus and Draco let go of Harry and stumbled back, gasping for air. Harry ran forward, caught Draco solidly around the middle and shoved him back against the wall, his cheek against Draco's chest, trying to force him back hard enough he hit his head. Draco struggled, nails tearing down the back of Harry's neck, and then he swept Harry off his feet with a careful twist of his ankle, left Harry thudding down onto his back on the ground.

Draco didn't waste any time following him down, leaning over so he was half straddling him and punching him methodically in the face, grinning dementedly, blood smeared down his chin. He'd made a mistake joining Harry on the ground, though: Harry was stronger and he shoved up, pushed Draco over, the two of them wrestling and rolling over and over.

"Just like fifth year," Harry panted, vaguely aware that a crowd of people had formed around them, shouting; someone was merrily taking bets.

"Which time?" Draco said breathlessly, a sweet smile just before he headbutted Harry so hard Harry saw stars.

Harry still laughed, staggering somehow up to his feet and aiming a kick that Draco nearly rolled out the way of. "You fucking prick," he said.

"Yeah, yeah," Draco said. Harry held out a hand and Draco took it, lurching up to his feet, then slid his strong grip up to Harry's wrist and started trying to twist his arm around behind Harry's back. Harry struggled and wriggled, saw an opening and drove his knee up, which made Draco drop his wrist with a yelp and hurry back, saying, "Don't you dare!"

Harry laughed up at him and lurched forward again, seizing Draco around the waist, the two of them straining against each other. Draco was so solid and warm and real against him.

"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall shrieked. "Mr Malfoy! _What_ is the meaning of this!"

They froze. Harry was panting softly against Draco’s neck. He could smell something very familiar.

"Apart, both of you!" McGonagall said, and Harry felt a warm hand on his shoulder tugging him back, Ron's blue eyes peering worried down at him. "I cannot think what came over you. Scuffling like children in the halls! I expect better of _both_ of you!"

"Sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, and heard Draco sulk out something similar.

"Harry," Ron said. Harry couldn't look at him. There was something thick in his throat. He knew in a vague, distant way that he should be embarrassed, but it was taking all of his concentration not to throw himself against Draco again. He risked a glance. Draco was staring at him, face filthy, breathing hard, crooked fingers all bloody and beckoning. Harry swallowed hard, stared back.

"This behaviour is absolutely unacceptable," McGonagall said. Her voice was almost shaking. "Detention, the both of you! For a week! _Separate_ detentions."

"Yes, Professor," Harry managed.

"Now get to class," she snapped, and Harry dragged his eyes away from Draco, let Ron pull him away.

Hermione was waiting on the outskirts of the crowd, her eyes bright and frightened. "Harry," she said, taking his arm at once and leading him off. "That wasn't - that wasn't normal."

"He gets under my skin," Harry said. Part of him was still furious, howling. He almost wanted to get angry at Ron and Hermione for marching him off like this, like he needed to be controlled. He wanted to turn around, head back for the dungeons, throw himself at Draco again. It was terrible to know now that Draco would rise to the occasion.

"You looked happy." Hermione sounded shaken. "You looked happier than I've seen you in - in..."

Ron said quietly, "Does your nose hurt?"

Harry touched it. His fingers came away wet with blood. He hasn't really noticed the pain but now it flooded in and he winced, almost didn't mind it.

"You should go to the Hospital Wing," Hermione said.

"It's fine," Harry said. "I'll just go to the bathroom and clean up before class." The two of them were still staring at him. Harry's head was clearing a little now, enough to realise that he had badly scared them, that they were going to be unhappy about this. Enough to know he'd made a fool of himself in front of most of the school and the rest were sure to know about it by dinner. He licked his lips.

"Harry," Ron said again.

"You go on ahead," Harry said. "I'll catch up." He tried to smile at them. "Really. No more fighting, I promise."

"I'm coming back looking for you if you're not there in ten minutes," Hermione said at last, and Harry nodded, and ducked into the bathroom.

His reflection was breathless and messy. He smoothed his hand awkwardly over his hair, used some loo roll and water to dab off the blood. There was a bruise coming up high on his cheekbone, and his collar was all crooked and stretched out from where Draco had yanked him about. Harry carefully pointed a spell to repair the top few buttons. He tried to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

Ron was right. He did look happy. He was flushed with triumph.

He was going to need to fix this, he knew. The curse had done new and complicated things to his head and he knew that even if Ginny hadn't been right before, that he was fucked up, she was right now.

After Charms McGonagall sent a note to tell him he'd be cleaning cauldrons for Slughorn this week. He went down meekly before dinner, where Slughorn looked mildly baffled to find him there and in trouble. He spent his hour scrubbing out cauldrons and trying not to think about how close the dungeons were. 

\---

Dinner was difficult. Harry came in at the same time - through different doors, thank god - as Draco, and ended up staring at him nearly slack-jawed from across the room. Draco had a black eye and a split lip and as Harry stared, Draco raised his hand and palmed the back of his neck.

Ginny jumped on Harry's back.

"Look how good you got Malfoy!" she crowed. "Truly you are the hero of the wizarding world." She slid off Harry and Harry turned, grinning at her, heart throbbing the way it always did when she touched him.

"Ron and Hermione are mad at me about it," he said, and shyly took her hand as they started towards the Gryffindor table.

"Ron's always been an enormous spoilsport," Ginny said cheerfully. She dropped his hand after a few steps, but that was okay. "And I'm beginning to think he's having a negative impact on Hermione. She beat Malfoy up once, you know," she added, in the dreamy tones of someone discussing holy writ.

Harry laughed. "In third year? She slapped him. You weren't even there."

"Oh, but I heard about it. _Believe me_ , I heard." She waggled her eyebrows and Harry smiled at her, a little cheered as they sat down to dinner.

“Are you -- is this you forgiving me?” he said, and Ginny looked momentarily abashed.

“Fuck, I forgot we were fighting,” she said. Harry grinned at her, incredulous, and she laughed. “What! It was just exciting to hear that you’d beaten Malfoy up. I got carried away.”

“I don’t think it’s exciting at all,” Hermione said severely. “I’m concerned we haven’t paid enough attention to the after effects of this curse.”

“Oh, the curse,” Ginny muttered, looking annoyed again, and turned away from them, addressing a sixth year sitting next to her instead.

Harry shot Hermione a look. “Thanks a lot.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s definitely my fault,” she said.

“Leave them to it,” Ron said mildly.

“Leave us to what?” Harry said, and Ron gave him an unreadable look.

“In any case,” Hermione said, frowning, “I think you should talk to Professor McGonagall, Harry, about what’s going on--”

“Nothing’s going on,” Harry said, “and I’m not talking to McGonagall, are you kidding? Did you see how mad she was at me today?”

“Uh, Harry,” Ron said, “you like, attacked Malfoy while beaming, so I think something is happening, kind of--”

“Since when is Malfoy being annoying anything new,” Harry said.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “It was like you were fifteen again. I don’t understand why it made you so angry.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Harry said, and then snapped his mouth shut before he could say something stupid, like: _I wanted to touch him._

Hermione looked tired. “You can’t even make up your mind,” she said.

“Well,” Harry said, and stabbed aimlessly at his dinner. “I’ll -- look, whatever, I won’t do it again. I’ll talk to Malfoy, okay? Happy?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Because we may need his help. I don’t think this spell is as straightforward as everyone would like to believe.”

She looked sure and firm, but after dinner Ron fell into step with Harry while Hermione walked ahead with Ginny and mumbled, “I think she’s - you know, she needs a mystery, or a problem, or something.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling a weird twinge of responsibility. “I - I get that.”

“Her parents are still furious,” Ron said quietly. “I don’t know if it’s -- if they’re ever going to forgive her.”

Harry looked at Ron, weird guilt flooding through him. Ron looked exhausted too, as though he was the one who hadn’t been sleeping this week. Harry nudged his shoulder against Ron’s. “I’m sorry it’s been the Potter Show again at the moment.”

“I like the Potter Show,” Ron said, smiling at him. “Been enjoying it for eight years now, haven’t I?”

Harry laughed. “Shut up,” he said, and tried to mess up Ron’s hair; Ron caught him around the neck, and they had a brief, energetic scuffle that eventually made Hermione turn, looking amused.

“Not you two, now, as well,” she said, and Harry laughed.

“Yeah, Ron was really mean to me in the curse world, I’ve got some things to work out,” he said.

“Oh, the curse world,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I think that’s part of the problem, Harry.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to stop thinking of it like it’s real,” she said, almost cheerful. Ginny looked back over her shoulder, uncertain. “It wasn’t a _world_. It was never something that was - possible. It played with your memories. It was a fantasy.”

Harry said, “Yeah.” Then he took a breath and said, “Actually, no, I think, like -- with my parents--”

“Harry,” Hermione said, mouth twisting, “believing it was real or possible is only going to make it harder to get over it.”

“Sure,” Harry said, even though he felt tense and unhappy. “Okay, but -- there was all this stuff, like, about my parents and -- I didn’t even know the _word_ achkan, the Dursleys never talked about Dad’s family being Indian--”

“Are you sure you haven’t?” Hermione said, gentle, which was worse than her matter-of-fact manner.

“Yes,” Harry said, bristling. “And there were like -- I don’t know, they had personalities. They weren’t fake.”

“But you know your parents had personalities, Harry,” Hermione said. “You’ve heard about them from -- Sirius and Hagrid and--”

“I know, but they were _real_ ,” Harry insisted, and then realised what he’d said and snapped his mouth shut.

“Harry,” Ron said.

“Right,” Harry said. “No. I’m being stupid. You’re right.” 

\---

He went to bed early that night, pulled out the photo album Hagrid had given him in first year. When he flipped through it something awful and ugly crawled up his throat. Every outfit that his parents had worn in the curse world was in there, down to his dad’s achkan and his mum’s fancy dress robes. He flipped from page to page, feeling ill, and then he got out the Marauder’s Map and looked at it for a little while until he felt better, even if that, too, was a lie.

\---

Hermione apologised the next morning, and Harry shook his head.

“No, I - I was being stupid,” he repeated, and then said, “anyway, it’s fine, I didn’t really mean it,” and pretended not to notice how unconvinced Hermione’s expression was. Instead, in an ultimately foolish attempt to please her, he said, “I’ll talk to Malfoy today, if you like.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione said, brightening. “See if he’ll tell you anything about the attackers, won’t you? And -- Harry, I think it would be better for both of you if you were able to get through this without…”

“Fisticuffs in the hallways,” Ron said cheerfully. Harry flipped him off.

“Fine,” he said, begrudging, and at the end of the Potions he deliberately packed up early so he could chase after Draco when he made his usual break for the door.

“Draco!” he called, and Draco swung around, eyes dark, shoulders tense. Harry said, “I’m - I’m not going to attack you again.”

“Oh,” Draco said, and then, “good,” although his voice was unreadable. They stared at each other for a moment and then Draco said coolly, “I have Transfiguration, Potter, I don’t particularly fancy standing around with you blinking at me--”

“I’ll walk you,” Harry said. Draco stared at him, and Harry shuffled a little back and forth, but eventually they set off. Harry said carefully, “Did Hermione show you the photos of the - the guys who got us with that curse?”

“I already told her I don’t know them,” Draco said, voice like ice. “I’m sure it’s a shock to the three of you that I don’t know every dark wizard running around the country--”

“Oh, come on, it’s not unreasonable to ask you,” Harry said. “They attacked you, too.”

“Accidentally. Just another casualty of being around you.”

Harry glared. “I don’t know why I even bothered,” he hissed, “it’s impossible talking to you--”

“I’ve _never wanted_ to talk to you,” Draco snarled. “If it’s not bad enough that you got me stuck in your _head_ for three weeks, now you and the merry little gang are following me around again trying to drag me into one of your stupid _mysteries_! I can’t think of anything worse.”

“Yes, and I’ve always wanted them!”

“It’s too early for me to listen to the ‘Woe Is Me’ Potter Speech,” Draco said. “And by ‘too early’ I mean, I’m awake, so--”

“They attacked you, too,” Harry said. “Don’t you want to stop them?”

“As I recall, I was the one who _did_ stop them,” Draco said, face vivid with anger. “I wasn’t the one who wanted to hang about in--”

“Shut up about that,” Harry said. He could feel his face warming. “I don’t even remember what you’re talking about.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Draco said.

Harry let out a rough laugh. “I don’t know why I’m bothering,” he said again. “You’re pointless.”

“Uh,” Ron said, waiting for Harry outside their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. “Not that I don’t agree with you, Harry. But you’d probably be more convincing if you two stopped holding hands.”

They stopped walking. Harry looked down, to where Draco’s fingers were laced comfortably through his. Then Draco dropped his hand like a hot coal and took off down the corridor, though not fast enough that Harry couldn’t see pink flushing up through his cheeks as though he’d been slapped.

Ron was grinning. Harry rubbed his hand over his face and said, “Don’t start. Merlin, I need a drink.”

“Oooh,” Ginny said, appearing behind them. “Pub night?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry said.

\---

Technically they were restricted to the same Hogsmeade days as everyone else, and certainly no nights out. But the uncertain position Ron, Hermione and Harry had found themselves in returning to school after having killed Voldemort allowed for certain flexibilities, like: McGonagall turning a deliberately blind eye to them sneaking out on Friday nights for the pub.

They went through the passageway down to Hogsmeade, passing around a bottle of Firewhiskey and taking neat sips from it. Ginny was swinging along next to Harry, in step with him though they didn’t touch, and even Hermione looked bright-eyed and pleased, her hand tucked into Ron’s pocket and her hair tied up with a red scarf.

“Three Brooms?” Ron said.

“Let’s not,” Ginny said. “The last time we went Flitwick was there too and it was so awkward to have to keep pretending we hadn’t noticed each other all evening.”

“I’m not going to Alakazam,” Hermione said, shuddering. “It’s full of teenagers and the bouncers always want to tell me how exotic I look.”

“Well, Hamstead is a far-off place, you know,” Ron said, and Hermione laughed.

“Let’s go to Hyde & Co,” Harry said.

Ron blinked. “Where?”

“It’s nice,” Harry said. “It’s like a - it’s mostly a bar but they have music sometimes. Nice stuff, though. And good beer. Haven’t we been?”

“I don’t know it,” Hermione said, and Ginny shrugged.

“I think I went with Seamus and Dean in the summer,” Harry said. “Come on, though, it’s not far,” and when they got there, just outside of Hogsmeade, everyone looked fairly pleased. Harry was vaguely startled when they got there and it was only a dark doorway, but then he remembered about the stupid fancy code, and when he raised his hand and knocked the bartender came and raised his eyebrows, let them in.

“Table in the corner, Mr Potter,” he said. Inside Hyde & Co was all low-lighting and there was a band getting set up, someone tuning a cello. Hermione beamed, looking around. Floating candles drifted easily from place to place, avoiding tipsy people’s hair, and the stripped back white walls were broken in places by great leafy plants, curling up to the roof and purring when people petted them as they passed. Waiters slipped nimbly through the crowd, and there was a low, pleasant buzz of conversation, somehow both more grown up and younger than the Three Broomsticks at once.

“Nice one, mate,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the back. “Seamus showed you this place?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said, voice thick with laughter, “I don’t think so,” and Harry followed her nod, with a sinking feeling, to where Draco was sitting tucked into a corner with Pansy Parkinson, face sour and furious as he stared at Harry.

“Oh,” Harry said, and Ron laughed, too.

“Never mind,” he said. “Our table’s on the other side of the room. It’ll be just like breakfast.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not admitting out loud that he and Draco had historically spent a lot of breakfasts at Hogwarts pissing each other off. He felt stupid, embarrassed, his mind invaded again. He licked his lips and said, “Well. My round.”

“Excellent,” Ginny said, hugging him briefly, comfortingly, around the waist before she and Ron and Hermione headed for the table, and Harry went to the bar.

He wasn’t that surprised when he felt Draco settle in at his side.

“You’re stealing my places now,” Draco said.

Harry discarded half a dozen cutting remarks and said, “I forgot. Sorry.”

“That’s likely,” Draco said sourly. “I don’t think a Gryffindor has been here in a hundred years.”

“This place hasn’t been open a hundred years,” Harry said, “I went to the opening party _with_ you, Draco, we had detention afterwards--” and then he stopped, because obviously he hadn’t and they hadn’t.

Draco gave him a look.

After a moment, Harry said, “I’m sorry. I’ll leave if you want.”

“No,” Draco said, sounding like it hurt not to chuck Harry out. “It’s -- fine. You stay on the other side of the room,” he added, voice dangerous.

“Yes,” Harry promised.

“And you have to buy me a drink.”

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry said.

“It’s only fair.”

“It’s so embarrassing,” Harry said.

“There’s nothing embarrassing about good taste!”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, and then the bartender turned to him, smiling.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“Right,” Harry said. “Four of the Manticore Dark Ales. And one Tanqueray with Rowle’s Tonic, dash of elderflower, one slice of pink grapefruit, and two cubes of ice for the inbred gentleman over at that table.” He threw an arm out in Pansy’s direction. Draco smirked at him, and swept away.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said.

“Thank you,” Harry said, rather fatalistically, and went back to his table.

“No punching _or_ handholding,” Ginny said, grinning at him. “I think you’re recovering.”

“Please don’t,” Harry said, and passed the drinks around.

He was very conscious of Draco and Pansy on the other side of the room, but that was okay, it didn’t have to ruin the evening; it was a big bar, and Harry was used to being conscious of Draco. It was almost funny, he thought, or at least he could see how Ginny thought it was funny: hating Draco, hating everything that Draco stood for and that Draco had done, remembering all of the countless times Draco had fucked him over or done something terrible, all of the times Draco had stood for the opposite side of everything Harry believed in, and Harry still knew Draco’s awful drink order by heart.

But Hermione liked the bar and when the band got going they were good, not so loud as to be overpowering, a cheery easy rhythm that had Ginny tapping her feet.

“I want to dance,” she said, not looking at Harry, and when Harry shrugged she grabbed Hermione’s wrist and dragged her onto the floor where people had dragged tables aside, were swinging round under each other’s arms. Ginny didn’t have a problem touching other people, at least, and it was nice watching her, her hair bright under the dim lights, trying to dip Hermione and laughing hysterically when Hermione told her off.

“They look happy, huh,” Ron said, and Harry leaned in against Ron’s shoulder.

“They look good,” he said.

“Don’t talk to me about my sister like that,” Ron said automatically, and then looked at Harry when Harry looked away. “I’m sorry. Is it okay?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, and then laughed. “Nah. Not really.”

“Is it going to be okay?”

“I think so,” Harry said. “I - how are you doing?”

“Fine,” Ron said. “You know me.”

“Ron,” Harry said.

Ron said, “I guess I thought -- I knew people would die. It wasn’t even like it was abstract. We were all so terrified. But I was so busy being frightened about Hermione, and - and I was sure that you weren’t, weren’t.” He stopped, swallowed hard.

“I know,” Harry said.

“I think I knew you were going to die -- right after Bill and Fleur got married,” Ron said. He looked old, tired in the dim light. “That’s when I realised it. I thought it was going to - it was easy to blame the fear on other things. Or to run away, or to be angry at you, or… I really thought you would die.”

Harry didn’t say anything, stared at Ron’s long, familiar face.

“And I was so -- I don’t know what I would have done,” Ron said, and laughed a little wildly. “I think maybe I would have wanted to die, too. But you… well, even if you did, you made it back, and Hermione made it out, and so did Ginny, and I was - that was the best case scenario. I feel so stupid lucky, that was the _best case scenario_. But my brother’s still dead.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“The curse world,” Ron said, not taking his eyes off Hermione laughing and shimmying round Ginny. “That was pretty good, huh? I mean, it’s funny, you and Malfoy, it’s a funny image, and Ginny’s right, you’re a berk for imagining she’d just go immediately for Neville if he was the Chosen One or whatever. But it was… your parents and Sirius and - and everyone. Fred too, huh?”

“Everyone,” Harry said, voice scraping.

“And no horrible nightmare happening every year at school, and no -- Cedric, or Pettigrew, or Umbridge making you carve shit into your hand every afternoon. I think you - I’m glad you came back from that one, too,” Ron said, and looked at Harry, his eyes bright and true. He reached out, squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “You’re still pretty brave, you know.”

“Ron,” Harry said. His voice felt tiny, almost dried up in his throat. He could barely get it out. On the very edge of the dance floor, half in shadow, Draco Malfoy was turning Pansy under his arm. “Ron. I didn’t. It wasn’t me. I think I would have - would have stayed.”

“Maybe,” Ron said, and his arm slid down around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “But here you are.”

Harry knocked his head against Ron’s, swallowed beer past the lump in his throat.

“I need the loo,” Ron said, and laughed. He stood up. “We’ll all be okay, you know.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“Maybe you don’t,” Ron said. “But it’s all right. I’ll know for the both of us,” and he drained his beer and set it down on the table, headed off for the loo.

Harry slumped in his chair. He drank his beer. He watched Ron come back from the bathroom and get caught by Hermione, dragged onto the dancefloor. He watched the three of them turning under the bright lights, and he thought that probably Ron was right, that they would be all right, and that the curse would fade and Harry was back now and he would be all right, too.

The lead singer said, “Fine, by popular request!” and a trumpet cut through Harry’s strange, tragic haze. His body lit up with familiarity and muscle memory, and he stood and headed towards the mass of people.

The dancefloor had expanded now, shifted, most of the tables shoved to the side. Ron, Ginny and Hermione were dancing together under a spotlight, laughing and cheerful, and Harry grinned at them and slipped left. The first words of the song thrummed in under his heartbeat, and he cut through the mess of people, passed people kissing, passed people fighting, passed a very energetic drunk man flailing his arms out to a semi-consistent rhythm, and then he reached Draco, who was smiling, who slid his arms around Harry’s shoulders.

They moved sweet and easy under the flashing lights together, pulled in close so their whole bodies were just one long line touching. Draco’s hips light under Harry’s hands, Draco’s fingers curled through the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry pressed his face against Draco’s neck and then let Draco spin him out, laughing, just the two of them in the golden spotlight again.

“Didn’t we dance to this at our wedding?” Harry called over the music, and Draco laughed and shook his head, shimmying in close to Harry again, fingers tripping down Harry’s side, sliding up under his shirt. Harry laughed, bit at Draco’s neck, pushed in close against him, and everything was so easy, and good, and for three minutes they pressed up against each other as though they’d never been parted, as though Draco had never forced them awake, as though the curse had settled around them sweet and welcome for the rest of their lives.

Then Ginny said, “Harry, Harry,” and had his hand, and Harry realised what he was doing. He couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder as Ginny dragged him away. Draco’s face was raised up to the lights, his expression cool and peaceful, his hands painted technicolour. He was still moving.

They spilled out into the cool air outside the bar, and Ginny let go of Harry’s hand as abruptly as Draco had that morning. She said, “Well.”

Harry licked his lips. “What?”

“I think maybe it’s time we talked about it,” Ginny said, and Harry looked at her, looked at the gap of space between them, and nodded.

\---

“Pass the tea,” Ron said.

“Don’t talk so _loudly_ ,” Hermione said. Her hair was falling over her face, frizzing, fingers massaging absently at her temples. Next to her, Ginny sat with her face tucked against her elbow, still mostly asleep.

Harry’s mouth tasted disgusting. “Can I have some tea, too?” he said, and was vaguely startled at the gravelly rasp of his voice.

“Everyone can have tea,” Hermione said, lips pinched, “but _quietly_.”

Ron kissed her hair. “Have some more bacon, ‘Mione,” he said. “You need salt.”

“I need a hangover potion,” Hermione said grimly.

“At least it’s Saturday,” Harry said, and slurped down some of his tea. He didn’t feel hungover as much as he did exhausted. He wasn’t entirely sure why they’d bothered dragging themselves down to breakfast. Half the school didn’t bother on Saturday mornings; the Slytherin table, in particular, was mostly empty.

Ginny said, voice thick with sleep, “Marmelade.”

“Get it yourself,” Ron said.

“Mrgh,” Ginny said, and lifted her head. Her gaze caught Harry’s for a moment. Harry smiled at her, and she said blurrily, “You’ve got jam on your cheek,” and reached to scrape it off.

“Ta,” Harry said.

“Can we go nap somewhere now?” Ron said plaintively.

It was too cold to lounge outside these days, the sky grey and threatening snow, so they went back upstairs to the Gryffindor Common Room and spent the day playing chess and attempting to do homework and lazily debating Quidditch line-ups. Harry slept for a little while, half-falling off the couch and when he woke up there was drool dried on his cheek and the sky was dark. He felt heavy and slow.

“I always feel like hungover days are a waste,” Hermione said next to him, and Harry nodded, head drooping onto her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. Hermione patted his back. After a moment, he said, “You all right?”

“I’m looking forward to the day none of us have to ask each other that anymore,” Hermione said slowly, almost dreamily, and Harry tucked his chin over her shoulder and watched Ron and Ginny play an extremely violent game of Exploding Snap, before Ginny got up and wandered back to her friends.

“Don’t laugh,” Ron said sheepishly, around ten, “but I think I’m going to bed.”

“Ron,” Hermione said, and Ron’s smile went slow and pleased.

“Yeah,” he said, and took her hand, and the two of them slipped up together.

Harry lounged back on the couch. He’d let them have whatever dormitory they’d picked for an hour or so. Everyone knew silencing spells but it was only polite, he thought, and then stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest. After a while he got out the Marauder’s Map.

Then he sat up. The little dot labelled _Draco Malfoy_ was standing still at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Harry got up methodically. He found his jumper lying discarded on the table and stole Ron’s boots that had been kicked under the couch. They were a little too big for him, and he shuffled up towards the Tower not really sure what he was doing. He didn’t think he needed to be - frightened, or anything. Nothing was frightening anymore, here in post-war Hogwarts, after the Battle, after the curse. Everything just went on, slow and pathetic. But he still headed up to the Tower, and when he got up there he stopped, a lived lifetime of deja vu hitting him, and something else, too, realer: sixth year, and a bathroom.

Draco was leaning on the far end of the Tower’s wall, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking.

Harry took a step forward. The night was quiet, and his footsteps were loud; Draco jerked around, face pinched and furious, and then it fell when he saw Harry and he swiped angrily at his eyes.

“Merlin,” he said. “Of course you’re here. Can’t you - can’t you leave me alone?” His voice was shaking.

“Draco,” Harry said, and came forward.

“Really,” Draco said, “I would - I would much prefer it if you left me alone. I’ve had enough of you for a lifetime. And - and I never said you could call me by my first name.”

“Draco,” Harry said again, and reached out; Draco flinched away from his hand, scuttling back so his back pressed up against the battlements. They stared at each other for a long moment, the school quiet around them. It had begun to snow, very gently, and it felt as though Hogwarts was being blanketed in silence. Harry said, “I’m - I’m sorry about last night. Again.”

Draco laughed, harsh and low. “Oh, okay.”

“I really am,” Harry said. “I think - I’ve nearly adjusted. It can nearly be back to normal, I just need to remember what’s yours and what’s mine and then - then it’ll be normal. Okay?”

“Fine,” Draco said, crisp and posh as ever.

“Good,” Harry said. “Well, I. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“Excellent,” Draco said. “Thank you. You can go, then. And stop looking for me on that map of yours,” he added sharply, and Harry stared at him, then nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “Well. See you,” and he turned, already feeling stupid.

“Potter,” Draco said. Harry turned back. Draco said, “Never mind.”

“Look,” Harry said. “It’s probably not going to be any less weird if we don’t talk to each other about it. I mean--”

“It feels like you’re cheating on me,” Draco said. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

Harry stared at him, his breath caught in his chest.

“I know it’s the curse,” Draco said, and had to turn away, sniffing angrily, running his hand over his face. “I know - I know it’s not real. And we hate each other or - politely tolerate each other, or whatever’s been going on, and you and the girl Weasley are -- but it feels like you’re cheating on me.”

“Draco,” Harry said. The word sounded like it had been torn out of him.

“And it’s like I’m crazy,” Draco continued, eyes huge and hungry, fixed on Harry’s face, “because no one else thinks it’s strange, and I want - I want everyone to notice. I want _Weasley_ to say something about it. But instead it’s - it’s all fucked up, and I can’t tell anyone, and--”

“I broke up with Ginny,” Harry said. Draco made a tiny, winded noise and stopped talking, mouth snapping shut, thin face turned towards Harry. Harry swallowed hard and continued, “It hasn’t been right between us for a long time. Not since after the Battle. But, er, we finished it, um, officially. Last night. So.”

“Right,” Draco said, voice strange and stilted. “Right. Well.”

“I felt like I was cheating on you, too,” Harry said.

Draco closed his eyes. He leaned back against the wall. After a moment, Harry came and stood next to him, propping his forearms on the rough top of the battlements. They stood with their shoulders together, looking in opposite directions. It was cold out, Harry’s breath a silver cloud of steam.

“I don’t know what to do,” Draco said, low.

“Me either,” Harry said. “Hermione thinks there’s more to the curse than what McGonagall and Pomfrey know. She thinks there’s something going on, that maybe it’s not… completely broken.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Draco said. “The other day. About Granger. I wouldn’t have - I didn’t mean it. I wanted to make you angry.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“I still shouldn’t have said it,” Draco said, low. “I feel sick about it.”

Harry looked at him. After a moment, he said, “Good.”

Draco was quiet. Then he said, very carefully, like he was thinking over each word, “Even if it is broken… I’m not sure I know how to come back from it.”

“Me either,” Harry said, and bowed his head.

Draco laughed, low and rusty. “Merlin,” he said. “Merlin. This is so fucked up.”

“I know,” Harry said. They stood silent.

The snow kept falling. Soon it would be Christmas, Harry thought numbly, and remembered a dozen Christmases at home, with his parents, the three of them opening presents, his mum letting him have a mimosa with breakfast the year he turned fourteen. Christmases he and Draco divided between Godric’s Hollow and Malfoy Manor, two enormous meals, two families, days full of laughter and slow, warm comfort. A nice deep sleep, or a massage, Hermione had said. Something as warm and easy as sinking into a bath. Really good sex, Ron had said. Harry turned his head, looked at Draco’s sharp cheekbones, the tight, furious line of his mouth. He knew how to soften that mouth.

Into the quiet, Harry said, “Did we have a kid?”

Draco laughed again, a slightly hysterical tinge to it this time. “Yeah,” he said. “Just at the end, though. I think the curse was -- clutching at straws.”

“Mm,” Harry said. “I’d never call a kid Scorpius, anyway.”

“I’ve had the name picked out since I was ten,” Draco said.

“Well, yeah,” Harry said, “I figured.”

“I think all we can do,” Draco said, “is ignore each other and hope that it will just - fade away.”

Harry licked his lips. “It’s not impossible,” he allowed. “It was - it was just a dream. It should get harder to remember.”

“Yes.” Draco’s voice was almost steady now. Then he said, hushed, “It didn’t feel like a dream, though.”

“No,” Harry said. “It felt like a life.”

They looked at each other. There was a single, solitary lamp glowing here, and it made Draco look alien and beautiful.

“What happened to your hands?” Harry asked, and Draco lifted one, unwound the light cotton bandage wrapped around his palms. There were deep scratches in the soft skin of his palm, tearing along the top ridge near his fingers. Harry resisted the urge to pick Draco’s hand up, smooth his thumbs along the marks.

“It was -- I was trying to break the curse,” Draco said. “It felt like a veil around us. I was tearing at it. When I woke up my hands were bleeding.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Pomfrey says it’ll heal, it’s just slow because they’re curse wounds,” Draco said, which wasn’t an answer, but then he added, almost curiously, “Someone’s coming.” Harry tilted his head and listened to the thumping steps coming up the Astronomy Tower steps below. Draco said, “Got your map?”

“I left it downstairs,” Harry said, but in a way he did have it -- Hermione and Ron burst into the tiny circle of light, clutching it, both of them with their robes pulled haphazardly over their pyjamas. Hermione’s hair was wild and Ron was only in his socks.

“Hey,” Harry said, startled.

“Thank God you’re both here,” Hermione said, panting. “I think I’ve worked it out.”

“Worked what out?” Harry said, frowning, Draco a silent presence next to him.

“She had an idea,” Ron said, breathless, “and we looked in the Pensieve again, and--”

“Oh, Harry,” she said, and turned her gaze on Draco. “Those wizards. It wasn’t you they were aiming for with the curse, after all.”

Harry had that odd feeling that the world was tilting again, that something huge was about to sweep him off his feet, that something was coming for them again. “No?” he said.

“No,” Hermione said. “They were aiming for Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who was so patient about the long wait! The next chapter will not take four months, I hope, and until then you are very welcome to come hang out with me on [Tumblr](https://dddraconis.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knew now, the game they were playing, the risk they were taking. That while there was no one around to tell them the curse hadn’t been real they didn’t have to tell each other. That they could pass the blame for the curse off, not to themselves where it really belonged or even the wizards from whom it had originated, but to their friends, for being startled and unused to Draco bright-eyed and hair mussed spinning warm in and out of his arms.

The train station was grey and miserable with the rain and had a vaguely abandoned air to it. The snow had cleared up the day after it arrived and so far December had been bleak and wet. At Hogwarts students were scurrying across the courtyard with their bags held above their heads and everyone smelled all the time of damp wool. It didn't look any more pleasant here in Wiltshire, though the wind was gentler. Hermione's hair was already damp and frizzing slightly at the ends.

The four of them stood silent. Ron said, aiming for bright and coming off faintly farcical, "I didn't know the Hogwarts Express came all the way down here."

"Only at Christmas," Draco said. "It makes stops all through the country."

"Not Christmas, though, is it," Hermione said, and picked up her suitcase. "Well. We'd better get a move on. Where from here, Malfoy?" Her face was grim, resigned.

Draco hesitated for a moment, face pale. He'd never arrived like this before, Harry knew, to an empty station. No parents, no servants, and three Gryffindors for company. But he pointed his pale chin up and said, "This way," and set off across the grey stone with a determined expression, dragging his trunk behind him.

And the old house magic was still working, no matter how many hesitations Draco had edged forward about Malfoy Manor when the idea of coming here first arose a few days ago. The carriage stood standing at the edge of the square next to the station, high black walls and a twitchy blue roan pawing at the ground in front of it. Draco took a quick look around the deserted square and raised his wand, light flickering at the end. The doors at the back of the carriage flung themselves open and all four of their bags leapt into the air and flew up and into the enclosed space. The doors banged shut, and the side doors slid open with a slightly irritated rattle. The horse snorted again. The whole carriage looked supremely annoyed to be there.

"Should you be doing magic here?" Hermione asked.

"It's a wizarding area," Draco said, and set off across the stone. The rain made his hair lie flat on his head, his skin so pale he looked almost translucent, blue veins stark in his throat. He caught the horse's nose in two hands, tugging it in close and smoothing a hand down its muzzle, murmuring something in its ear. Harry watched, helpless, as Draco reached into his pocket and produced a small green apple, which the horse munched down, blowing rough air through its nostrils but looking, in general, a little appeased.

"Doesn't it need a driver?" Hermione said.

"The carriage'll drive," Harry said. He'd been in it before. It had been a spring day and Draco had been laughing and happy in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, batting Harry away as Harry tried to kiss at his throat. "Stop it, stop it, our parents are waiting," he'd said, eyes bright, and Harry had said, "I think the wedding might have tipped them off that sometimes we have sex," while Draco made disgusted noises and clutched Harry closer.

It was roomy inside, at least. Ron and Hermione and Harry sat on one side and Draco sprawled on the other, legs kicked up in front of him, head tilted back against the wall, eyes mostly closed. He looked dusty, pale enough to be fading. He looked like he’d been left on a shelf and forgotten.

Outside Wiltshire was slick and grey with the rain. There was green somewhere there, but it had been hidden by creeping fog, and as the carriage trundled down dirt roads the hedges looked bleak, almost black in the miserable light. Ron was staring at his hands. Hermione’s gaze was fixed out the window, mouth tight and fixed with disapproval. It had been her idea to come here. That didn’t make it any easier, Harry knew. None of them wanted to be here; especially not Draco, who’d argued vehemently against coming.

“It’s all boarded up,” he said. “There’s nothing there -- the Ministry have been through so many times now--”

“We don’t know,” Hermione had disagreed. “Perhaps they missed something. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, exactly, so how would they have been able to pick it--”

“There’s nothing in that house,” Draco had said, voice crisp, face remote. “Believe me. There’s nothing there.”

But they were coming up the long road that led to Malfoy Manor all the same, and, alone amongst the four of them, Harry felt his heartbeat pick up with traitorous excitement. He couldn’t help it. He thought he was recovering, the hold of the curse easier to escape now, ironically, that they weren’t all ignoring it; not to mention the fact that they had an idea, no matter how vague, of what the wizards who’d attacked them were after. It was easier to believe in his real life, easier to remember what had happened and what hadn’t. And all the same, as the carriage lurched through deep deposits of mud and stones, Harry leaned as close to the window as he could without being conspicuous and thought muddled, confused, joyful things that amounted to one word: _home, home, home._

His gaze flicked to Draco, but Draco’s eyes were shut, his mouth pinched. He looked as though he were being sent to the Dursleys.

“There it is,” Hermione said, though Harry’s eager eyes had picked it out a little while back: that blur on the horizon was Malfoy Manor’s sweeping roofs, that reflected light the thin daylight on the steeple. As they drew up closer the house came into firm being: the gloomy shuttered windows, the great wide drive. The front gardens were all overgrown. The gate was so stiff with mud and old magic that Harry, Draco and Ron had to climb out and set their shoulders to it to get it to swing open. It didn’t matter. It was so close to what Harry remembered -- it was only a few years that separated it from the gleaming, glowing magic of Malfoy Manor in full possession of itself. It was nothing, at all, like the ruin of Godric’s Hollow.

Draco didn’t seem to think so. His expression was still sour. Between him and Hermione, it was hard to tell who hated the house more.

But Harry gave up on hiding it and leaned out the window, the cold keeping his eyes bright, colour rising in his face. This was better than being at Hogwarts, which he’d felt as though he’d outgrown even before the curse hit. This was a reminder of a life. He could have been blindfolded and he’d still pick his way over weeds and stones and angry peacocks and find his way, sure and steady, to the front door and the promised family within.

Then he frowned, taking his glasses off to polish them and look closer.

“I thought you said there weren’t any servants left?” he said.

“What?” Draco opened his eyes. “There’s not.”

“There’s people on the front steps,” Harry said.

Draco swung his legs round, pushed in to stare out the window as well. Their shoulders pressed tight, and Draco said, “No, there’s not.”

“There.” Harry pointed. He nudged Draco’s chin towards the right direction with his elbow, light, and Draco made a faint, surprised noise.

“I don’t know who it would be,” he said.

“Should we be worried?” Ron’s voice was very even.

“No, it’s fine,” Harry said absently. “The house will only allow people who’ve been approved.”

“And I’m sure no one’s been allowed in that we should worry about at all,” Hermione said, dry.

“Well,” Harry said, startled, and the carriage rattled a little closer. He paused, squinting. “Is that--”

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco said, and pushed the door of the carriage open, tripping out onto the gravel and setting off at a quick walk. Harry followed him without really thinking about it, stumbling on the dismount and catching himself on Draco’s shoulder. Draco gave him a quick, wide-eyed look and then said impatiently, “Hurry up!”

“Who is it?” Harry said. He was curious and possessive at once. The house was fully in front of them, stern and solemn through the fog, and he didn’t like the idea of anyone being here that he didn’t know. It was his house, he thought, desperate and lying, and then the figures solidified through the mist and Harry’s growing unease tipped into fury.

He saw Pansy Parkinson first. She was standing a little forward, her lipstick like a slash of crimson across her face, her shoulders a jagged hunch. On either side of her Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott were lounging on her shoulders, Daphne’s dark hair bouncing down to her waist, fur curling round her shoulder, long pink nails in the cold, Theodore’s handsome face bored and sullen. Blaise Zabini looked faintly annoyed, standing behind Pansy and blowing on his cupped hands to keep them warm. Next to Blaise, shoulders hunched and acutely uncomfortable, Gregory Goyle was shuffling from foot to foot.

Something cold touched Harry’s heart. He stopped, scowling, and watched as Draco let out a choked little breath, dashed the last few feet forward, and threw himself at the five of them.

\---

It was Hermione who worked out that Malfoy Manor was at the heart of the curse, of course.

They’d been sitting in an empty classroom, wearily thrashing it out for the umpteenth time. Ron had his feet kicked up on a desk and his head tilted back, eyes closed. Hermione was half-hidden behind the stack of books. Draco was sitting upright, neat and nervous as ever, and Harry was in a chair that he was straddling sideways and leaning slightly awkwardly out from, so that he could pretend he wasn’t sitting next to Draco.

“It still doesn’t make sense to me,” Hermione said.

“I don’t know how.” Draco sounded exhausted, ground down. “It’s not as though there aren’t plenty of people who’d want me dead.”

“But the curse didn’t kill you,” Hermione said.

“Which we’re mostly grateful for,” Ron said, “given as how it would have killed Harry too. Though some would say that was a necessary sacrifice.” He opened his eyes to wink at Harry. Harry rolled his eyes.

“No, really,” Hermione said. “It’s -- the curse is the thing that doesn’t make sense. It’s so complicated. It’s so over the top.”

“So they were dramatic bad guys,” Harry said, half-yawning. “It’s not like that’s super unusual.”

“Why put that much effort into it?” Hermione argued. “Why make it so detailed? Why give it that much power? And actually, why let you wake up?”

“Draco made us wake up,” Harry said, unable to keep the resentful thread from creeping into his voice. Draco cast him a swift, apologetic look that made something Harry was doing his best to ignore thrum through his body. “McGonagall said the whole point of the curse was to like -- keep us trapped in there forever.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “But it didn’t. You woke up. It was difficult to, but you still did, and then what - a week of sleeplessness? You missed three weeks of classes? It’s not a very dreadful outcome.”

“What are you saying?” Draco’s voice was cool, faintly interested.

“No offense, Draco, but it’s not like you’re an extraordinarily powerful wizard,” Hermione said, as close to tact as she came. “You broke out of it and then what was left?”

Draco went slightly pink. Harry said, awkward, “But Hermione, I thought you said they weren’t aiming to get me--”

“No, no, I don’t think they were,” she said, impatient. “I’m not talking about _that_. I’m talking about -- the memories. You’ve a whole head full of memories. All fresh, and new, and maybe - what if they could direct the curse slightly, make you dream about something they wanted? And then all they have to do is come and fetch it out of your head?”

Harry slowed his rocking, chair bumping back to the floor. Draco leaned forward, eyes wide. “You think I know something? And they want that?” He looked bewildered. “ _What_?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “What happened in the dream?”

“Loads of stuff,” Harry said. “Lots of - there was - what kind of thing does Draco know? What it would have been like to not be a complete berk all through school?”

“Fuck you,” Draco said.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Harry said, eyeing him up. Draco’s eyes were bright.

“Maybe it’s not something he knows,” Hermione said coolly. “Maybe it’s something he’s seen.”

Draco said, slowly, “You know, I never thought I’d move back home.”

“What?” Harry glared. “Shut up. It was a great home.”

“Mate,” Ron said, which was the new way he told Harry that Harry was being slightly too weird again. Harry let out a rough, annoyed breath.

“I mean, eventually, sure,” Draco said, waving a hand. “But not while my parents were still alive. And we didn’t - we didn’t even consider living somewhere else first.” He made an odd, decisive little gesture, very deliberately not looking at Harry.

That was annoying. But Harry said, suddenly thinking, “We spent a lot of time at the Manor, actually.”

 

“Malfoy Manor?” Ron scrunched up his nose.

Draco was nodding, though, and Hermione had pushed some of her books aside, leaning forward and peering at them intently. Harry said, “Before fourth year, that night. And then that - that week before sixth year.” He drew in a breath, thought of Draco crashing into the lake beside him, thought of trips to the Muggle cinema in the next town and the way Draco sat fascinated by him in the dark, even when Harry put his mouth on Draco’s neck. “And then - and then--”

“After that,” Draco said, crisp. “Yes. For quite some time.”

“Harry,” Hermione said eagerly, “do _you_ remember the rooms?”

“Malfoy’ll remember them better,” Ron said.

“Yes, but Harry’s the outlier -- he’s only been to Malfoy Manor once and we only saw -- well.” Her throat clicked, dry. “If he can remember--”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah. I remember -- loads of it.” Malfoy Manor’s red soaked living rooms, the sumptuous curtains, the glittering tapestries, huge golden mirrors; the four-poster beds, big and sprawling, that Harry had thought he’d sleep the rest of his life in; marble bathrooms with fresh flowers in the enormous French windows; the attics that had been so appealing when he was a teenager, with a hundred hidden oddities and treasures; the grounds, out and sweeping and gorgeous, and in the middle of it all Draco like the promise the house had given him. Like Draco was the prize he’d won. “Loads.”

Hermione looked triumphant. “I think we should go talk to McGonagall,” she said and, looking reluctant, Draco agreed.

McGonagall hadn’t been so enthusiastic.

“Let me see if I understand this theory correctly,” she said. “You believe the attackers were looking to get at some piece of information Mr Malfoy has about something in Malfoy Manor, an object or spell or _patch of wall_ , for all you know. You believe their intention is to recapture Mr Malfoy or, now that they have another subject, Mr Potter, and extract this information from them with Merlin knows what techniques.”

“That’s right,” Hermione said, beaming.

“And your _plan_ ,” Professor McGonagall said, gazing severely at them over her half-moon glasses, “and believe me, I am using the term loosely - your _plan_ is to go to Malfoy Manor, and try and find this Mystery Item or Patch of Wall first.”

“Yes!” Hermione said. “It must be important. And I really think Harry or Malfoy would know it when they saw it -- there must be some intention in the spell, some sense of looking for it, that--”

“And you also believe that the attackers will be seeking you out.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said dismissively, while Harry, Ron, and Draco all tried to look very secure and certain. Draco mostly looked a little sick. Ron looked faintly constipated. “But that’ll be fine--”

“Ms Granger,” McGonagall said. “From what it sounds like, if you are correct, which is by no means guaranteed, you’ll be heading straight to Malfoy Manor with targets painted on your back.”

“I think we’ll be able to handle them, Professor,” Harry said. He wasn’t really that worried about the wizards coming back for him. They’d been fairly good, fairly dangerous, but Harry had managed to knock one of them out when he wasn’t even expecting them. This time, the three of them would be ready for an attack. And Harry would look out for Draco.

McGonagall’s expression flickered, something tired and tender there before she was frowning again. “Mr Potter, I realise that you are perhaps a little more equipped to handle such things than the average eighteen year old, but all the same, I cannot give my approval for this.”

“Professor,” Hermione said, “it’s important. They must want something -- very badly, to go to this amount of effort and risk. We could have the aurors on standby but in the meantime, the Manor has wards, we can look after ourselves, and we can be of _use_. And,” she added, with the air of someone producing a trump card, “if we leave now and get it sorted by the end of Christmas Break, we’ll only miss one week of school.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched. Though she continued to argue for another hour after that, Harry knew they’d won.

Hermione had been delighted, and Ron had been affably up for it. Harry had been privately relieved to get out of Hogwarts, away from the other students -- who couldn’t stop gossiping about him and Ginny, and Draco as well, now that Draco was spending time with them -- away from the battle-scarred turret, away from the lessons that seemed faintly unimportant now. And he wasn’t at all displeased to be going to Malfoy Manor; he felt as though he could still see it, the bright welcoming sight of it under a blue sky.

Only Draco had continued to be unhappy about the whole thing. He didn’t want to go, though it didn’t make sense for a hundred reasons to go without him. He didn’t argue too much, though he did say, “My mother is - is in the Italian Villa, so she won’t be about,” as though it would put them off.

Ron let out a noisy breath of relief. Hermione, who had been making inventories of old wizarding houses and some of the magical items and rooms found in them, looked up and said absently, “Oh, good, that’ll make things much easier.”

“Narcissa’s all right,” Harry mumbled, and was immediately glad that no one appeared to have heard him.

Draco said, “The house isn’t - isn’t--”

Harry was the only one looking at him. Draco swallowed hard, caught Harry’s gaze, and said quietly, “It’s not going to be how you remember it.”

Harry licked his lips. “That’s okay,” he said, and three days later they were all on the empty Hogwarts Express, Kingsley Shacklebolt’s letter assuring them he was on high alert clutched in Hermione’s fist, on the way to Wiltshire.

\---

“I don’t understand how you’re _here_ ,” Draco said, beaming, for about the thirteenth time.

“Come on, Draco, get the door open,” Blaise said, rubbing his hands together and looking unimpressed. “I’m freezing my--”

“We know, Blaise,” Daphne said. “There’s no need to keep telling us about it.”

Harry hunched his shoulders. The cold had sunk into his bones, and when Draco finally climbed the last few steps and pushed open the Manor doors with a firm, knowing shove, it didn’t dissipate. The doors creaked open, and the hall lay open before them: long and cold and gloomy, touched with stone and silver. Hermione let out a rough little breath; Ron was holding her hand very tightly. Harry stood apart, unsure, between the solid line of the two of them and the Slytherins.

“Your letters have been _very_ strange,” Pansy was telling Draco in a low, furious murmur. “I wasn’t at all reassured. And neither was your mother. We could hardly come to Hogwarts, but when you wrote and told me about _this_ little plan--”

“Secret plan,” Draco said, with a hasty backwards look. Harry scowled, and Ron and Hermione looked distinctly unimpressed as well.

“We were hardly going to leave you on your own with a bunch of Gryffindors,” Pansy said, sneering over her shoulder. “At first it was just going to be me and Goyle, but then Blaise was bored, and Theo’s in the country again, so--”

“Here we all are,” Daphne said, with a bright smile. “Just like old times.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and said, curt, “Where’s Millie?”

Daphne, Theo, and Blaise gave him startled looks. Goyle kept his gaze fixed on the ground; he’d barely lifted it, even when Draco ran up and seized his shoulder. Only Pansy looked completely unsurprised, regarding Harry with a cool dislike that made him sure, if he hadn’t been already, that Draco had told her everything.

“Egypt, last I heard,” Draco said, and then to the others, “How long are you going to be here?”

“As long as you are,” Pansy said, and then, doubt flashing over her face, “although I’ll have to go home for Christmas.”

“Everyone will, I expect,” Goyle said. Harry almost jumped at the sound of his voice: low, somber as stone.

“Well, naturally,” Blaise said, strolling along by their side and looking about the hall as though sizing up its potential. They passed a fraying tapestry; his lip curled. “This place has certainly gone to the dogs, hasn’t it?”

Draco laughed, cold and entirely mirthless. It made him sound like his father. Harry stared miserably at the floor.

“I’d say worse than that,” Draco said, picking up speed, and the Slytherins exchanged worried looks behind his back.

Hermione walked faster, too, still looking a little sick but determined now. “Right,” she said. “It’s getting late already but I’d like to get started. Malfoy, show us where we can leave our bags and then I’ll have a look at the library -- your house _does_ have one, right? These old wizarding places usually do.”

“Of course,” Draco said, sounding faintly offended, and he led them all up the grand staircase that Harry remembered bumping down on a bike with Ron and Draco, though they never had. Now it was dusty and dark, menacing shadows in the corners that seemed like they might contain something. Without discussing it, all nine of them fell into single file so they could walk up the narrow patch of light falling down the stairs, their trunks trailing behind them. Something touched Pansy’s ankle with long, curious shadow tendrils and she squeaked and kicked out; Draco turned back, face cold and blazing, and the dark fell back into place. He took Pansy’s hand, all the same.

Harry rolled his eyes and sped up. He knew where he was going; there was no need to trail behind Draco like a lost duckling with the other Slytherins. “Come on,” he told Ron and Hermione, and the three of them pushed forward until Harry took the lead, up another two flights and then into the East Wing of the house. The carpets Harry remembered as a lazy, glowing red of luxury were trodden down and dark; there were horrible sticky patches on them. The doors were all firmly closed, instead of halfway open and leading into new magical rooms. It was as though the house had turned its back on everyone, and Harry wondered vaguely if Draco and Narcissa had even stayed here, the last few months before school reopened. It felt abandoned.

“We’ll have to rummage up food for ourselves, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Is there a village anywhere nearby?”

She was looking over her shoulder, but Harry said, “There’s a little wizarding one about fifteen miles from here, and a Muggle one just beyond that. I think the Muggle one’s probably our best bet for food -- there’s a Tesco that’ll be open--”

“Goodness,” Theodore said. “What on earth is going on, Draco?”

“We have to eat,” Harry snapped, shooting a glare over his shoulder at him. “I don’t suppose Muggle sandwiches will taste any different from wizarding ones.”

“There’s some supplies in the house,” Draco said quietly. “I’ll put in an order with our grocer’s tomorrow, too.”

“Well - fine,” Hermione said, and Harry rolled his eyes, turning onto the corridor where most of the bedrooms were.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, throwing open the door to his room and kicking the trunk in. “Guest bedrooms down the hall,” he added to Hermione, “I’m just going to find a jumper--”

Then he realised that all of the Slytherins were staring at him as though he’d grown a third head. Except Draco, who’d gone faintly pink.

“ _What_ are you doing,” Daphne Greengrass said.

“What?” Harry said, bewildered.

Pansy eyed him with pure dislike. “That’s Draco’s room,” she said.

Harry stopped and swallowed. He glanced through into the room again, as though it would be alien to him, but instead it was devastatingly familiar. The green curtains, the polished floorboards, the desk still scattered with books and Quidditch magazines. There was a stack of books about dragons in one corner and at the far wall he could see, faintly, the little ink marks where Draco had measured himself growing taller. He didn’t quite dare look at the bed, which he remembered sinking into as vividly as his own bed in the Gryffindor Dormitory. It was _his_ room. Every nerve in his body was screaming to go in, let his trunk unpack itself into the wardrobes, which had space for him, and maybe have a quick kip before dinner.

He looked at Draco, mute. Maybe Draco would understand. Surely Draco would understand.

“Guest bedrooms down the hall,” Draco echoed, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Right,” Harry said. He grabbed his trunk again and marched away. He picked the first one he didn’t recognise that well, a nondescript bedroom about the size of the Dursley’s first floor, slammed the door behind him, and lay on the bed, which was fine, and had cool sheets, and was empty except for him.

\---

Ron knocked on his door a little later.

“All right?” he said, sidling into Harry’s room and looking a little nervous. “Hermione’s in the library, I don’t think she’s coming out anytime soon.”

Harry felt a sudden rush of guilt for leaving Ron alone in Malfoy Manor, with a nest of Slytherins all along the hall. He sat up on the bed and said, “Yeah, sorry. How’s your room?”

“Green,” Ron said. “Lots of snakes. About as creepy as you’d imagine. So you know the whole house, then?”

Harry flushed, nodded.

“Brilliant,” Ron said. “That means you know where we can find food. Lead the way. The Slytherins are conspiring somewhere and I’m starved.”

Harry laughed, reached out a hand and let Ron pull him up off the bed. “What are they conspiring about?” he asked, as they headed back down the hall. Harry swung around the corner and past a palatial bathroom that looked grimy and disused, cobwebs over the mirror. He pulled the door shut by instinct.

“Who knows,” Ron said, “but I passed by Malfoy’s bedroom and they were all in there whispering, so. Weird, isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten that Slytherins went about like that, all en masse and haughty. It’s -- well, never mind.”

“What?” Harry said.

Ron looked uncomfortable, shrugged. “It’s almost nice,” he said. “I know that sounds mad, but after the war and everything - well, it’s nice that they’re gits in a normal kind of way.”

“I wish I could tell fourteen year old Ron that you were going to say that one day,” Harry said wistfully, leading Ron down the shortcut via the servants’ stairs. “It would be great. I think maybe he’d break something.”

“I wish I could tell fourteen year old Harry that he was going to know the layout of Malfoy Manor creepily well,” Ron said, and Harry flinched. Ron said, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s - look, kitchen’s this way,” Harry said, as they rattled down the last set of stairs and turned towards the cool back of the house, all stone and whitewashed walls, and then there was a sharp _crack_ and they jolted backward to avoid tripping over a tiny, ancient, cross House Elf.

“And _what_ ,” the House Elf said, in a very stern voice that was only slightly mitigated by a minor lisp, “do the young wizards think they are doing here?”

“Uh,” Ron said. “Uh. Getting lunch? Harry, who is this?”

“No idea,” Harry said, staring. “You weren’t in the dream. Who are you?”

“I is not knowing anything about any dreams,” the House Elf said sharply, “and I is not answering to the whims of strangers in Malfoy Manor!” His voice - Harry thought it was a he, anyway - was rising furiously.

Harry said, “Draco said there wasn’t anyone left here! That everyone had gone!”

“And the young wizards thought they would just break in, did they?” the House Elf yelped. “And go through private rooms, and steal from the kitchens, and _raid this fine house_ \--”

His voice went louder and louder and behind them, Draco said, astonished, “Jeeps?”

“Master Draco!” the House Elf said, and beamed. He put his hands behind his back, gave a smart little half-bow. He was wearing a pair of quite deft little trousers that might have been sewn out of brown canvas material, and a draped silk tunic that, if it had once been a pillowcase, was certainly an expensive one. Harry could not help thinking, a little startled and silently apologetic to the Hermione that lived in his head, that this House Elf certainly looked a lot _saner_ than most of the ones Harry had encountered. “I has just caught these intruders on your property! I was not realising you were home!”

“It’s okay, Jeeps, they’re invited,” Draco said, stepping forward; his hand went absently up to touch the small of Harry’s back as he passed. Harry straightened. “I - what are you doing here? I thought you were all gone?”

“I was not wanting to leave this house,” Jeeps said severely. “Not this house that I have spent all my years in, and trained so many others in, and watched so many Malfoys grown old and happy in. But when the dark magic came I thought it would eat the house alive. So we left.”

Draco swallowed. “You did the right thing,” he said, lowering himself unconsciously, so he was half-squatting in front of the tiny Elf, his forearms resting on his knees. Harry looked down at his crooked collar, the line of his neck. “I didn’t know that you could leave. We were worried that - that something had happened to you.”

Jeeps looked shifty. “I has been in this house a long time,” he said, and then quickly changed the subject, “These are your guests, then, Master Draco?” He gave Ron and Harry distinctly suspicious looks. “They smell like Gryffindors.”

“It’s all a bit strange these days, Jeeps,” Draco said. “But look, they’re fine to go in the kitchens or - well, you know, the guest access areas--”

“Nice try,” Harry said, and Draco squinted up at him.

“Fine, whatever, most areas,” he grumbled.

“There is no need for them to be going to the kitchens,” Jeeps said, cocking his little chin up. “If Master has guests, Jeeps will arrange dinner. Will seven o’clock suit? In the main dining room?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco said, with relief. “Thank you.”

Jeeps sniffed as though Draco shouldn’t have had to ask, bowed low to the ground, and vanished with a _crack_.

“That is the creepiest House Elf I’ve ever seen,” Ron said fervently. “At least Kreacher was obviously insane.”

“I don’t remember him,” Harry said, frowning. “How come I don’t remember him?”

Draco rolled his eyes, looking unexpectedly fond. “I think that perhaps House Elves are one of those things that our heads weren’t going to be able to agree on,” he said, “given that you _stole mine_.”

Harry’s stomach dropped automatically at the reference to Dobby, and he looked away. Draco was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “In any case, Jeeps is - very old.” He looked a little nervous, standing and straightening and blinking around. “Um. _Very_ old. He’s not a normal House Elf. I think he could probably leave forever if he wanted to, but he basically managed this place, especially because my father…”

Draco trailed off, licked his lips. “Had other agendas,” he said finally, and Ron turned a sneering little laugh into a cough. Draco looked pale and fervent and angry, but it was the first time he’d volunteered information to Harry in what felt like years, so Harry just nodded along.

“Anyway,” Draco said. “Jeeps has been around for as long as I can remember. He’s not an ordinary House Elf. He’s all right, though,” he added, a little hastily, “he’s not - dangerous or anything. Just bossy.”

“Why would he be dangerous?” Harry said, bewildered.

“Uh,” Ron said. “This place is up to its eyes in dark magic, Harry. Even the creepy House Elf said so, remember?”

“Right,” Harry said. He closed his eyes for a moment. In the brief flash of red and black he could also see Malfoy Manor glittering and warm in the sunlight; Malfoy Manor as it had been when he was sixteen and so desperate to touch Draco that every part of it seemed saturated with him; Malfoy Manor as it had been when he was thirty-two and married and happy, with his kid laughing and chasing the peacocks. Harry felt old. When he opened his eyes, Draco was staring at him, wide-eyed, almost frightened, and all of the shadows of the Manor were crawling with malice.

“You’re right,” Harry told Draco. “It’s not anything like I remember.”

Draco flinched, and Harry let Ron lead him away, though Ron didn’t know where anything was.

\---

Dinner was served in one of the smaller dining rooms. Perhaps it had been easier to clean or perhaps it had been too small to use often when the Manor served as Death Eaters Headquarters -- in any case, it was in much better shape than a lot of the house. The chandelier -- only the size of one of Hagrid’s enormous pumpkins, practically restrained by Malfoy standards -- was glittering silver and crystal, and the oak floorboards had been polished so they glowed, seeming to hold the warmth of the candlelight on the table hidden in their grain.

The table had been laid as though for a feast, but it didn’t matter; Draco and the Slytherins sat at one end, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat at the other. Occasionally one of them would awkwardly push a plate back and forth, but aside from that the two groups ignored each other. The Slytherins seemed to have been instructed not to pay too much attention to Harry and his friends. Every now and then he would feel Pansy’s cold gaze on the back of his head, but whenever he looked over she was just smiling at Draco.

Jeeps had, somehow, organised a roast turkey. It was enormous, and delicious, and there were potatoes roasted in goose fat and a spread of other roasted vegetables and green beans with orange and slices of pale almonds, and gravy. There were also several crystal decanters of red wine, which Harry was very thankful for; he, Ron, and Hermione had snatched up two.

Hermione kept looking tensely about herself and Ron was making stilted, awkward conversation. Harry had trouble focusing on it, busy as he was eavesdropping on the Slytherins, but even that was useless -- it was just Daphne and Theodore giving a very long, detailed, boring description of a party they’d been to in Zurich last week. He didn’t have much of an appetite, even though the food was annoyingly good, perhaps better than Hogwarts. Ron polished off his own and then Hermione’s leftovers, and when he was done with that Harry silently handed Ron his own plate, as well.

“Brilliant,” Ron said, satisfied.

The plates vanished away when they were all done, and Draco looked slightly uncomfortable, as though he wasn’t sure whether he should be hosting or not. “Well,” he said. “I suppose we should get an early night?”

Blaise stared at him, aghast. “It’s nine o’clock.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. Harry couldn’t tell whether it was amusement or annoyance. It was harder to read this Draco. The real one, he reminded himself. “There’s not exactly a lot of nice places in the house anymore, the only reason the bedrooms are still mostly okay is that no one was doing a lot of sleeping towards the end--”

There was another _crack_ , and Jeeps appeared. “If dinner was satisfactory,” he said, with a stern look at Draco, “there is cigars and whiskey waiting in the lower parlour.”

Blaise looked immediately cheerful. “There we go,” he said, and Draco rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“All right,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “But no cigars. I’m not looking after you when you start throwing up again.”

“I never,” Blaise began, indignant, as Theo and Daphne linked arms with Pansy and drew her through the doorway, all clearly familiar with the lower parlour.

Draco threw a look back at Harry, deliberately careless. “Coming, Gryffindors?” he said. “Or are you going to sulk in here?”

“I might fancy a cigar,” Ron said, with a thoughtful air, and stood up, following after the Slytherins. He looked back over his shoulder and winked at Harry and Hermione, who exchanged looks.

“Well,” Hermione said.

“If you’re up for it,” Harry said.

They stared at each other in silence, then both reached out and took another decanter of wine.

“The one over there’s still mostly full, too,” Hermione said, nodding at where Goyle had been sitting.

“Right you are,” Harry said, taking it. He gestured with it to the doorway and Hermione sighed and led the way.

The lower parlour was another of the smaller rooms, clearly freshly tidied and polished, all gleaming wood and rich carpet and a fireplace in which a small but enthusiastic fire was crackling merrily. Harry felt a little cheered at the sight of it, the idea of it: the Manor being reclaimed, piece by piece, room by room. Then he remembered it wasn’t his to reclaim, and took a swig from his decanter.

“Ugh,” Pansy said. “Foul.”

“You don’t want whiskey?” Ron said, from where he was presiding, and grinning, over a heavy bottle of something amber that looked expensive and smelled -- very strong.

“I’m all right,” Harry said. He didn’t particularly want to get too drunk around the Slytherins, didn’t trust himself. Ron shrugged and poured himself a heavy-bottomed glass of it, then paused and handed out more to the Slytherins. Ron and the Slytherins both looked faintly surprised by the whole thing, but it helped that Draco took his easily, said, “Thanks, Weasley,” in the faint, distracted voice that meant he’d forgotten the curse wasn’t real for a moment. Harry tried not to react too obviously. He supposed it wasn’t too bad, if it meant Draco would be friendly to Ron.

Hermione sat down neatly in an armchair, her ankles crossed, and Harry sat at her feet. The carpet was plush and soft, and he wasn’t going to leave Hermione on her own, not in this house. When he was done pouring the drinks, Ron came over and sat next to Harry, and Hermione laughed down at both of them, her hands resting briefly on their heads.

“Nice,” she said.

“Yes, like tame dogs,” Draco said, voice cutting, and threw himself onto the sofa. He stuck his head in Pansy’s lap and his feet in Goyle’s and closed his eyes, knuckles white around his glass. Harry let himself look, then realised that Pansy was glaring at him, and hastily looked away.

Blaise, Daphne, and Theodore all looked a strange mixture of bored and confused, and arranged themselves neatly in a series of chairs. Blaise straddled a tall wooden one backwards, elbows resting on the back, glass held in one hand. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced lazily over at Draco, which, Harry privately felt, was unnecessary.

“So what’s the plan, anyway,” Daphne said. “You’re being very mysterious, Draco.”

“He’s not being mysterious,” Pansy said. Her voice was bitter, but she was carding tenderly through Draco’s hair. Harry scowled at her, too. “He’s being a fool.”

Draco sighed. “I haven’t even had a chance to tell you--”

“I don’t need to be told,” she said. “You’re here, aren’t you? With a gang of schoolchildren and a decrepit House Elf. When less than six weeks ago you were attacked by two strange wizards who are still on the loose--”

“When you say schoolchildren, are you referring to yourself, too?” Blaise asked curiously. “As it happens I’m older than you.” Theo laughed.

“Granger thinks they’re after something in the house,” Draco said. “We have to find it first.”

“Why?” Daphne said, sounding disappointed. “Why can’t we ever let the weird strange wizards find it first, and then decide if it’s dangerous or not? This is your fault, Draco. You shouldn’t have let the Gryffindors get to you first.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “There weren’t many Slytherins around to help me out with that, as it happens,” he said, “seems most of them took their Death Eater-administered NEWTS and made a run for it--”

“All right, all right,” Theodore said hastily, while Daphne looked away and Blaise screwed up his nose slightly. Only Goyle smiled, mostly at Draco’s feet. Pansy was still watching Harry, cool and unimpressed. Harry made a face back at her on a whim, then regretted it when she raised an aloof eyebrow.

“The problem is we don’t know what it is,” Hermione said clearly. “We think it’s here but it could be anything, really, and God knows the Manor is full of dark objects. We’ll have to go through every room. It’s useful that you lot have showed up, really,” she added.

Ron said, “You could sound a little surprised when you say that, ‘Mione. For my health.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly down at him. “I think we should split into teams,” she said. “At least two. Malfoy should be in one and Harry should be in the other, and then they can point out anything that’s different.”

“Right,” Draco said. “Good idea.” He sounded so relieved it didn’t even seem odd that he was agreeing so fervently with Hermione. Harry felt his mouth twist into an awful smile, and took a gulp of the wine to hide it.

But Ron was shaking his head. “That won’t work,” he said. “There’s already too many things that are different. Harry didn’t even know about the weird old house elf.”

“Yes,” Pansy said, “we should all stick together.” Her voice was thick with dislike; she may as well have said out loud, _I want to keep an eye on you._

“That’s an unusual position for you,” Hermione said, cold.

Pansy flinched. Draco looked startled, and then his face shut down again, and he sat up, pulled Pansy’s legs onto his lap, murmured something in her ear. Harry drank his wine again and Blaise, bored, said, “Shall we have some music then?”

“Yes, and more whiskey,” Daphne said, who had finished her drink impressively quickly. “If we’re going to spend time with Gryffindors we may as well drink the pain away somehow.” Theodore got up and started fussing around with the records, and Goyle mutely handed over the bottle of whiskey.

“Let’s try to behave ourselves,” Pansy said, curling her hand possessively over Draco’s shoulder. “You know how whiskey makes you chatty, Queenie, and you shouldn’t like to accidentally talk to a Weasley.”

“I suppose I could cope with it if it was very good whiskey,” Daphne said, and winked in Ron’s general direction. Ron went a startled red and Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Besides, if we _do_ get drunk enough, maybe Draco will do the Chair Thing--”

“I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in the house for that,” Theo called from where he was kneeling by the gramophone, and the Slytherins laughed.

“What’s the Chair Thing?” Harry said, frowning.

“Nothing,” Draco said, voice tight, and the rest of the Slytherins looked as disbelieving and revolted as if a cockroach had asked if it might join dinner. Harry tried not to make a rude gesture, gave up and did it anyway, and was ignored.

Daphne got out a pack of cards that were four times thicker than usual and Pansy said, “Oh, good,” as she started dealing them out. The Slytherins grouped around each other, backs to Harry, murmuring to each other. The heavy sweep of violins filled the parlour. It was as though Harry and his friends weren’t there at all, as though Malfoy Manor had never been invaded by Gryffindors. Something sat heavy and bitter in Harry’s throats.

“Well,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes, and took a swig of her wine. Harry followed suit.

“Funny lot, aren’t they,” Ron said, though he didn’t seem particularly amused. Hermione was hunched in her chair as though the shadows of Malfoy Manor were reaching for her, and Harry was suddenly bitterly sorry that he’d brought them here.

But Ron said, “Come on - I have cards, too. Come closer to the fire, Hermione,” and they played Exploding Snap. Ron cheated deliberately and ridiculously and started making Hermione laugh with it, and Harry cheered up a bit, too. If Draco was ignoring him, now that he had his petty little group of friends, well, that was fine by Harry. Harry had never needed him.

“We really should be getting started,” Hermione said, looking uneasily about the room.

Ron shook his head. “I don’t want to explore the Manor in the dark,” he said grimly. “Let’s give it a few days of getting to know the place first.”

Harry hunched his shoulders. “You think it will take a few days?” He didn’t know whether he was excited or furious about the idea.

“If we’re lucky,” Hermione said. “This place is huge, and we have next to no idea what we’re looking for. I think we should start in the more crowded rooms - attics, cellars, studies, rooms that aren’t as lived in. It’s unlikely to be something that was hiding under the Malfoys’ noses all this time.”

She started to map out her idea of how to go through the house systematically: start with the less visited, more crowded rooms, she said; attics, or dungeons. She said _dungeons_ as normally as any other word, her face set and composed. Any storage rooms. Any of the libraries - the one she’d been in today had several cabinets of curiousities as well as books, and in any case it could very well _be_ a book. Harry ventured the idea of the greenhouses and Hermione said, “Ooh, good idea,” and started drawing a map of the house as well as she knew it on a sheet of parchment she produced out of nowhere, Harry leaning over her shoulder to help between hands of cards.

The Slytherins lay yawning, draped on green sofas. They’d given up on their game; Theo was holding forth about something that they were all half-listening to, and only barely half. Daphne Greengrass had found a long ostrich feather and was balancing it on her nose, head tilted back, eyes narrowed. Draco looked half asleep, still slumped against Pansy. Harry had had enough wine that he didn’t care anymore. When Draco noticed him watching and frowned, Harry just sneered back at him.

The music went on and on, fancy waltzes and bursts of horn. Trust a Slytherin to be pretentious enough to put on classical music, Harry thought idly.

“Snap!” Ron said. Hermione and Harry hastily jerked back to avoid their eyebrows being burned off; Ron grinned and collected the pack of cards towards him.

“You’ve got to stop cheating sometime,” Harry said, and then tilted his head to the side. “Wait. I know this song.”

“Hmm?” Hermione looked half-asleep, jaw cracking as she tried to smother an enormous yawn.

“No, really,” Harry said. It was like an itch in the back of his head. His knee twitched forward. “Hermione, what is it? It’s on the tip of my tongue--” He took another gulp of wine, in case that loosened it.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know it.”

“You must,” Harry persisted, “it’s not like _I_ listen to this kind of stuff--”

“Oh, I know this one,” Ron said, looking up as he gathered his piles of triumphant cards towards him. “It’s one of the old dance songs. From balls and things, you know.”

“Yes!” Harry said. He could almost see it: the sweep of robes on marble floors glowing from chandeliers above. His mother’s hair like a flame in the sea of dancers. “I knew it!”

“I think I know this dance too, actually,” Ron said. Hermione muffled a yawn against her elbow and watched them both, eyes soft and warm, and maybe it was that that made Ron jump up, do a few little steps, so familiar that they triggered something bright in Harry’s hindbrain.

“Yes,” Harry said again, grinning, and he reached out a hand and let Ron pull him to his feet. “Wait, I think I can do it--”

“We’re going to need more room. Help me shove the table over,” Ron said, tipsy and overexcited, and they pushed aside the polished round table and carried a few chairs over to the side. Hermione was laughing, quiet and delighted. The Slytherins had stopped talking, and Harry was vaguely aware of a group of sneers turned their way, but he didn’t care. He’d made it through the war, him and his best friends, and he wanted to dance.

He reached for Ron, but Ron said, “Wait! You have to - Mum made sure we knew, so you step back and bow--”

“Oh, right, of course,” Harry said; he’d almost forgotten the dumb etiquette of the whole thing. He backed up a few steps, and he and Ron made serious eyes at each other and swept low, gracious bows. He had the giggles. Ron was grinning all over his long face.

“Good sir,” Ron said, holding out his hand, and dipping one knee in something that might have been a curtsey.

“My lord,” Harry said, and took it.

They both stepped forward on the wrong foot. “Ouch!” Harry said, and Ron cackled.

“Okay, wait, you go left, then,” he said, and they cut a careful jig down the luxurious carpet. Harry was very aware that it wasn’t only Hermione watching them, but he didn’t look over at the group. “So it’s left-right, left-right, and then we have to - turn under--”

That proved difficult. They made an awkward cage with their arms and tried to twist underneath it, but Ron was a head taller than Harry and Harry’s shoulders went strained and too straight; then Ron overcompensated, and they banged foreheads. Hermione said a loud, sleepy, “Ha!”

“Never mind,” Ron said hastily. “And then it’s - what is it - step - hop, step - hop, ouch, Harry, watch it--”

“ _You_ watch it,” Harry said; he couldn’t catch his breath, he was laughing too much, and he elbowed Ron in the stomach again when he turned under Ron’s arm. The trumpets cut in again. They waltzed so excitedly down the carpet they nearly knocked over a vase, and Blaise Zabini made a revolted noise.

“You two look so dashing,” Hermione said. Ron was delighted; he swung Harry round enthusiastically enough that Harry ended up staggering into a wall and Ron had to rescue him with an urgent grip on his wrist.

“Ugh,” Draco said, standing up. Harry’s heart sank, laughter dying on his face; he and Ron were coming back down the carpet towards the Slytherins, and he couldn’t quite distract himself. Draco ran a hand through his hair, looking disgusted, and said, “I can’t watch this,” and Harry looked away, back in the direction they were about to head. He didn’t want to watch Draco leave. He’d had enough of it. He especially didn’t want to watch Draco leave if he was going to do so with Pansy, or Blaise.

“If Mother could only see,” Blaise added. “I think she’d be sick. What a mockery of dancing.”

“Yes, that’s enough,” Draco said, and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry startled. He hadn’t realised Draco was so close, and he and Ron came to a sudden halt. Draco said, “If you don’t mind, Weasley.”

“What?” Ron said, and Draco tapped him neatly on the top of his head, like he was sending a child to bed. He slid in between them, right hand light and impersonal on Harry’s waist, left catching up Harry’s hand, and then he picked up the dance like it had been his from the very beginning.

“Two, three,” Draco said quietly, and they swept down the carpet as though it was one of the ballrooms Harry had danced in, as though if he turned his head his parents would be right there. The room seemed longer all of a sudden, the parlour grander. The furniture pressed itself back against the walls, and Draco’s hand was sparking in Harry’s own.

“And under,” Draco said. “There; you remember,” and Harry felt himself flush, turning easily under Draco’s arm. It was so smooth. It felt easy. Harry couldn’t remember the dance that well, he’d been stumbling with Ron, but now it was as though all the shining steps of it unfolded in a long line in front of him and he only had to let Draco guide him down the path.

“I thought it got quieter,” he said.

“Yes, now,” Draco said, and sure enough the violins went low and tender. Harry was curled in close to Draco, one arm straight behind his back with Draco’s hand keeping it there, their other arms framed above their heads, faces close. Draco wasn’t too tall for him the way Ron was. Harry still had to look up but not so much. Draco’s eyes were grey and grave and fixed on Harry, and Harry could feel his warmth all along the line of their bodies where they weren’t quite touching.

They turned in circles. Harry could feel himself sloping into Malfoy’s touch.

“And back,” Draco said, and swung Harry round under his arms again, his hand light on Harry’s hip, directing him. It was all very easy. Draco only had to give him the slightest touch and Harry knew exactly where to go. He’d never been very good at dancing but he knew how to dance with Draco; he remembered this, a hundred versions of this.

He swallowed when he found himself in the next part of the dance, moving forward alone with Draco behind him. Ron and Hermione were staring; Hermione looked aghast. The Slytherins looked shocked. Harry grit his teeth and reached back, half-expecting to be met with empty air, but Draco’s cool, dry hands were waiting, curling round Harry’s fingers and swinging in behind him, and then Harry couldn’t really see the others.

Draco turned him round again. His face was closer this time. They took careful steps around each other. Harry drew in a breath and said, voice much lower than it had been a moment ago, “I can’t remember the rest.”

Draco didn’t say anything, staring at him. He looked far away, untouchable.

“I,” Harry said, and Draco let go of his hands, so slow it seemed as though he wasn’t even aware of holding onto them. Harry tried not to whine. He tried not to lean into Draco’s body. He said, while Draco watched him with eyes that were grey and serious and sure, “It gets -- there’s a skipping bit?”

“You always step on my feet,” Draco said, and then stepped back. He looked dumbfounded, passing his hand over his face. “It’s - the room’s not big enough, anyway.”

“Right,” Harry said. _There’s the ballroom in the next wing_ , he thought and did not say. Draco knew as well as he did. He opened his mouth to say -- something -- and Draco said, quickly,

“It’s late.”

Harry blinked. He looked over, again, at where their silent audience was staring at them. He felt his mouth twist, bitter, and stepped away from Draco.

“Right,” he said again.

\---

He, Ron, and Hermione brushed their teeth in Hermione and Ron’s ensuite bathroom in silence.

On the plus side, Harry thought dryly, he reckoned he might have shocked Hermione out of her hatred of Malfoy Manor, at least for a little while.

“Uhm,” Ron said finally, and rinsed his mouth. “So. That was weird.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron. Hermione was quiet, her face thoughtful.

“I guess we knew it was going to be weird?” Ron said, as though he was just figuring it out. “But that was a - a lot of weirdness.”

Harry leaned forward and spat into the sink.

“Bit possessive, isn’t he,” Ron said uncomfortably. “Good dancer, though.”

“Not that good,” Harry said automatically, because Draco’s head was big enough. Even if he wasn’t here to hear it.

Hermione said, low, “We need to get to the bottom of this curse,” and, abruptly exhausted, Harry went to go to his own, lonely room and sleep.

\---

Harry slept restlessly, kept jerking awake and thinking, _why am I in here?_ and then falling back into uncomfortable sleep. When he heard the first low murmur of birdsong he pulled the pillow over his head, sinking back into grogginess, even when the hand landed quietly on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

“Mrgh,” he said.

“Potter,” Draco said.

Harry reached out, hauled Draco in by the front of his shirt, pressed his face against Draco’s shoulder and said blurrily, “No.”

“Potter,” Draco repeated, laughing low, voice a whisper. “Potter. Wake up.”

“Leave me alone,” Harry said, and nudged his nose along the line of Draco’s arm. He was wearing a Slytherin jersey. The threads tickled Harry’s nose and made him sneeze.

“I’m hungry,” Draco said.

Harry groaned.

“Harry,” Draco said, sing-song. “It’s morning.”

“You always do this,” Harry said. “I hate you. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m _hungry_ \--”

“You have a creepy House Elf for that,” Harry said, remembering.

“But I want pancakes,” Draco said. “And you make them best--”

Harry made a sad, pathetic noise. He turned his cheek to the side. Draco’s hair was overgrown, tickling at Harry’s forehead, and this close his eyes were bright with suppressed humour.

“You’re awake now,” Draco decided, and sat back on his haunches. Harry slipped and fell face-first onto the blanket with a tragic little cry, and Draco laughed at him. “Come on. Come _on_.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled, and slid out of the blankets feet first. That wasn’t how he usually did and it made him pause, but Draco, kneeling at the side of the bed, was already sliding thick socks on Harry’s feet and Harry remembered that the floors of Malfoy Manor were always too cold for him in winter.

He peered down at Draco, waking up a bit, and Draco smiled up at him, fair hair still dishevelled from sleep, a tiny bit of toothpaste smeared on the corner of his mouth. Harry watched him, and then Draco’s crooked smile went nervous and Harry remembered, suddenly, that there was no one to watch them, no one to judge them, no one to be shocked or confused or alarmed, and that he didn’t have to make the effort to do what felt screamingly unnatural, unreal. He held out his hand and Draco took it and they pulled each other to their feet.

“Come on, then,” Harry said, and they padded down the quiet halls together. Draco was a little ahead, dragging Harry along, looking over his shoulder and making elaborate shushing gestures. Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and went straight for the kettle in the clean, whitewashed kitchen, all stone and the heavy wooden table. It was so quiet, just the few chirps of birds out in the grey, dismal morning. Draco switched on the radio.

Harry opened the high wooden cupboards and took down a silver mixing bowl and the whisk from its little hook. “Milk,” he said, shoving the bowl under one arm and reaching for the flour. Draco headed down into the larder, shoulders shifting, already half-dancing to the bad pop.

He came skating out a moment later with the heavy glass bottle of milk, socks sliding along the cool stone floor. It might be marble. Harry had never paid proper attention. Draco set the milk on the counter and then came to reach over Harry’s shoulder where Harry was straining in vain for the eggs up on the highest shelf. Draco snatched them up and smirked down at Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You make it so easy,” Draco said, dancing back over to the kitchen counter. “You never remember to use magic.”

“Mum says too much kitchen magic ruins the taste of food,” Harry said.

Draco scoffed. “That’s just an old wives’ tale. Hogwarts food tastes fine, doesn’t it?”

“True,” Harry said, cracking eggs into the bowl. Draco was practicing his moonwalking, shooting smiling looks at Harry. “Do you want American or French style?”

“Ugh, as if you even have to ask,” Draco said, screwing up his nose, and Harry laughed.

“Get me the big frying pan, then,” he said, glugging in an approximate amount of milk and starting to whisk. “Are your terrible friends going to want breakfast?”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “Are your terrible friends?”

“Almost definitely,” Harry said, “but—”

“It’s early yet,” Draco said, eyes bright. “I know. Mine won’t be up for a while either.” He swivelled on one foot and came slinking over to Harry, hips rolling, trying to shake the frying pan in a mildly seductive way and nearly braining Harry in the process. Harry laughed, reaching out instinctively, an arm sliding around Draco’s waist as he took the frying pan off him, and Draco dropped something that might have been a kiss against Harry’s hair before he shimmied away again to turn the radio up.

It was fine, anyway: Harry knew now, the game they were playing, the risk they were taking. That while there was no one around to tell them the curse hadn’t been real they didn’t have to tell each other. That they could pass the blame for the curse off, not to themselves where it really belonged or even the wizards from whom it had originated, but to their friends, for being startled and unused to Draco bright-eyed and hair mussed spinning warm in and out of his arms.

 

“You’re not going to leave it to sit, are you?” Draco asked, chin pointy on Harry’s shoulder as he leaned on him and watched Harry whisk the mixture together.

“It tastes better that way,” Harry began, and Draco groaned.

“It takes so _long_ \--”

“But given that you have instant gratification issues,” Harry agreed, and Draco spun away, satisfied.

They were halfway through the first stack of pancakes when Pansy appeared, and she’d barely started making weird, nasty jibes before Hermione and Ron arrived, a little out of breath like they’d rushed through getting dressed. All three of them were goggling at Harry and Draco in their pyjamas, and Harry kept eating his pancakes, let the normality sink around him for as long as he could. Draco’s face was pale and haughty, like any morning at the Slytherin table, and Harry didn’t think any of them had noticed Draco’s foot trapped securely between Harry’s ankles yet.

“Let’s start in the attic,” Hermione said, as Ron took over frying the next batch of pancakes.

“Which attic,” Pansy and Draco said at the same time. Harry rolled his eyes and reached for the half-squeezed lemon.

Hermione looked annoyed too. “Whatever the biggest one is,” she said, “whichever has the most stuff.” There were dark circles under her eyes. Harry wondered if she’d slept at all.

“West attic, then,” Draco said.

“What’s the situation like?” Hermione said. “Is it in storage, will we need to unpack things? Is it just sitting up there? Is any of it dangerous?”

“Uhm,” Draco said, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Bit of everything, I guess? We can go up and have a look.”

“After breakfast,” Harry said, and then the rest of the Slytherins arrived, all of them louche and yawning and draped over each other’s shoulders like one enormous handsome mess. They made a beeline for the stove and the carafe of coffee that Harry hadn’t really noticed Draco putting on, and then they came and sat all along Draco’s side of the table. Blaise was wearing a handsome peacock-patterned smoker’s jacket with a gold brocade belt wrapped around his hips; Daphne was in a silky pink slip that went down to her ankles and still didn’t seem very decent somehow; Pansy had on a pair of dark black sweatpants that were rolled up around her ankles and a threadbare Slytherin Quidditch jersey; Goyle was wearing a flannel set of pyjamas not unlike the pair Uncle Vernon had once been gifted from Harrods. Theo slumped behind them all, already dressed in an expensive white shirt and dark trousers, but his eyes practically closed, a pillow crease along one sharp cheekbone.

Harry had never really paid attention to the Slytherin table at breakfast, in either universe - or, more worryingly, he had, but only one particular member of it. This close, though, it was hard not to, the five of them slumped over each other with Draco like an anchor on the far side. They passed around three coffee cups, making the best of it. They helped themselves to pancakes, and the frying pan started quietly sizzling again, someone directing a spell that made the pancakes woozily pour themselves out.

Draco’s foot nudged against his ankle. Harry looked at him, sleepy, and Draco smiled, quick and sweet, like they’d both gotten what they wanted, after all.

\---

They ate lunch in the attic, not even bothering with the dining room for the sake of Jeeps’ distress. They were all of them already exhausted, a fine layer of dust settling in their hair. Four hours of moving methodically through the crowded attic, unpacking boxes and staring at a variety of bizarre magical objects with no way to know if it was what they were looking for had left Harry parched and tired, a faint headache throbbing in his temple.

“We’d know,” Ron said, easy, long legs stretched out in front of him while Jeeps disapprovingly distributed bowls of soup and thick, buttered hunks of a farmhouse loaf. “We’d know if we found it.”

“Are we basing this on anything beside your nerdy girlfriend’s _hunch_?” Pansy asked, sneering.

“No,” Hermione said, not looking up from the pile of books she’d brought up with her from the Manor’s library. They’d worked out fairly early on in the process that Hermione couldn’t sort through the attic herself, after the fourth floral trinket had tried to eat her fingers off; she’d settled for sitting on a stool in the corner with her books, looking up now and then to supervise but mostly deep in a series of alarmingly illustrated tomes. “But we don’t have much else right now.”

“What are you looking at, Granger?” Draco said, speaking carefully. Hermione flicked a glance at him and then back down.

“It’s a book on alternate universe theory,” she said.

Draco blinked. “But you don’t think we were in an alternate universe.”

“No, no.” Hermione waved a hand dismissively, reached for her bread. “There were too many discrepancies, too many things that didn’t make sense, and too many references back to _this_ world. Plus the dark spots both of you mention, like the world wasn’t entirely filled in. But I think the wizards who attacked you must have done some research into alternate universe theory. I’m wondering if I can follow their path, work out where they went from here.”

“I say we just wait here,” Daphne Greengrass said airily, stretching out her legs. “Wait for them to show up and attack you again, as they inevitably will, and _then_ ask questions. Or die, I suppose,” she added.

Pansy and Goyle both looked a little worried. Blaise said moodily, “My mother would be disappointed.”

“Slytherins are such drama queens,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “There’s nine of us here and the Ministry and McGonagall on alert, I think we’ll be fine.”

Pansy looked like she wanted to say something nasty and sour, but didn’t quite trust herself. She started going venomously through an enormous wooden chest instead, occasionally shaking a trinket at Harry or Draco. They always both shrugged.

“I don’t know how well this is going to work,” Harry said, finally admitting it. “You really think we’ll know it when we see it, Hermione?”

“I just think that if you were looking for something subconsciously, if that was what you were after, you’d attach to it,” Hermione said, and three hours later, after lunch had been cleared away, her head shot up when Harry said, “Oh!”

“What is it?” she demanded, standing up and hovering close by. “Is it safe?”

“Yeah, I don’t think this is it,” Harry said, grinning. He finished pulling the sheet off the swathed shape of it. “Draco, isn’t this--”

“Oh, the record player,” Draco said, getting up from where he’d been poking sour-faced through a box of baby clothes. He came over, leaned over Harry, one hand balancing absently on Harry’s shoulder. “I’d forgotten.”

“Did you fix it up in this world too?”

“Can’t remember,” Draco said, “Pansy, was it--”

“I don’t remember that thing,” she said, watching them uneasily.

Daphne and Theo strolled over. “What is it?” Theo said.

“It’s a gramophone cabinet,” Draco said, touching the varnished wood and making a face at the grey smear of grime it left along his finger. “But we hooked it up so it was like - what do Muggles call them again, Potter--”

“Speakers?” Harry tried. “Boombox?”

“Something like that,” Draco said. “I’m not sure I could do it again. Lily helped.”

“It can’t be that hard,” Harry said, “remember, you arranged the - you did something with the containing spells -- come on, Draco, please--”

“Mm, all right,” Draco said, indulgent. Harry made the mistake of glancing back and saw the Slytherins, Hermione and Ron surveying them with identical expressions of shock and disgust, and quickly glanced forward instead. Draco stripped off his sweater and handed it to Harry, then rolled up his shirtsleeves and slid on underneath the cabinet.

“Fuck, this is - give it a clean, will you,” Draco said, and Harry twitched his wand uneasily towards it. There was a light _poof_ noise and Draco coughed violently for a moment but then cleared his throat and said, “Thanks!” After a moment he started humming. Harry could only half see him, hidden in the small gap between the cabinet and the floor, but he crouched waiting anyway, straining his eyes to see Draco’s pale hair in the gloom, head on the floor and chin tilted up as he surveyed the cabinet’s innards, fingers moving quickly, wand pointed carefully. Draco was best at fixing things, at making weird little bits of magic, at the tiny, intricate, deft spells, but every now and then he needed a burst of power, and Harry could usually help out there.

Everyone stayed quiet, the Slytherins bright-eyed and turning towards Draco the way Harry remembered from fifth year, Ron leaning against a wall and watching with a complicated expression, Hermione staring fixedly at her book. Harry said, “Watch it, remember there was that alchemied cog--”

“Ow!” Draco said, and Harry laughed. Draco kicked his foot out, caught Harry’s knee. Harry could see the sharp edge of his smile under the gloom. The room was quiet, no longer so dusty, just warm and comfortable, the dust motes drifting in a sunbeam, the old oak floorboards pooled with collections of honey light. When Harry ran his fingers over the wood it felt as though it was warming to his touch, and the only sound was Hermione steadfastly turning pages and Draco whistling quietly to himself.

“There,” Draco said, rapping the side of the cabinet. He put out a hand and Harry helped him slide out, both of them straightening and lifting the lid of the gramophone.

“I don’t get it,” Goyle said, voice rough, sidling nearer. He was looking at Draco with suspiciously bright eyes. “If it’s just a gramophone, why’s it so big?”

“It’s got a liquor cabinet section, too,” Harry said, “and a place to put records. Narcissa said they were popular in, uhm, when was it--”

“The 40s,” Draco said.

“Right,” Harry agreed. “But the music still only fills a room, you know, maybe a ballroom. And you can use an amplifying charm on it but they’re not so good with music--”

“It makes it tinny,” Hermione said. She looked reluctantly intrigued. “Or it doesn’t fix the bass properly--”

“Right,” Draco said, combing his fingers through his hair and dislodging a few spiderwebs. He’d missed one at the back; Harry beckoned and Draco obediently tilted his head down, let Harry swipe it out. “But if you use a modification of an amplification charm _and_ you split it so it affects the different parts, well, differently--”

“Split a charm?” Hermione said.

“Yeah,” Draco said. “It’s about - you don’t quite let the charm end, you don’t properly cast it off, and then you can hook it onto the next part. It only works if you’re working on things that are quite close together, obviously, which is why it’s good for machinery.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said. “You can show me later.”

“Okay,” Draco said, and they exchanged a look that Harry couldn’t read.

“But does it _work_ ,” Daphne said, and Harry opened the section of the cabinet that was meant to hold records. He poked through them, vaguely annoyed.

“These aren’t yours,” he said.

“No,” Draco agreed. “They look like my great-uncle Alphard’s. He had a taste for, er, the baroque.”

“No kidding,” Harry said, holding up a record sleeve that seemed to be fringed in a frilly pink doily.

“I think I found some of yours earlier, Draco,” Pansy said, and headed back to one of the boxes. She kicked it towards Draco, who flipped open the lid and laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “These are _old_. Dad must have confiscated them.”

“Mm, fourth year, I think,” Pansy said, trying to veil her interest. Harry slipped under Draco’s arm to have a look and pulled out a record with a triumphant yelp.

“Oooh,” Draco said, and Harry set it carefully into the gramophone.

Hermione startled at the first robotic laugh. “Is this--”

“Draco and Pansy were obsessed with Muggle 80s music,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, as the synths kicked in. “You should have seen him when Mum introduced him to Wham, I thought he was going to cry--”

“I don’t like that Potter suddenly knows all our secrets,” Pansy said darkly.

“Shut up, come on,” Draco said, twisting a dial, and he raced out of the attic and down into the hallways of the Manor, let out a pleased kind of warcry.

Harry followed, laughing, with the Slytherins and Hermione just behind him and Ron trailing along, confused. “Why aren’t they afraid of ghosts?” Ron said. “I thought Muggles didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“The sound’s so clear,” Draco said, pleased, and slipped out of his socks, jumping lightly up onto the banister.

Harry grinned. “Oh, I forgot you were such a show off.”

“Takes one,” Draco said, and stretched out a hand. Harry pulled off his own socks and took it, followed Draco up and they went running along the bannisters, ignoring Goyle’s warning call. Harry had half-wondered if he would remember how to do this, but the shiny wood of the Malfoy banisters felt as familiar to him as his broom and his feet never landed wrong, the very air cradling him close.

He followed Draco down through the house, running swiftly downhill with their backs straight so they didn’t lose their balance, jumping over the snake-shaped one that had a habit of coming loose from its railings and biting them, through the house with the others chasing after them down the stairs.

“It’s so good everywhere,” Draco called over his shoulder, sounding very smug. “I am a great genius.”

“You are a great pain in my arse,” Harry said, and caught up behind him, trapped Draco close against the wall for a moment and grinned at him as he used the opportunity to slide past and take the lead.

“You are the _worst person I’ve ever met_ ,” Draco said, and they took different routes into the ballroom, running around the gilded gold banister that had been Harry’s favourite when he was fourteen, stopping breathless when they met in the middle.

The others came at a more sedate pace into the room. Blaise said, “This is excellent, Draco. We can have _such_ a good party.”

“I still don’t get it,” Ron said. “What’s a ghostbust?”

\---

“No, no, wait,” Theo said, grinning, “so the party in fourth year--”

“Yeah, where Blaise brought that pot from his stepdad and everyone thought they were getting really high and like a few weeks later we found out it was spearmint,” Harry said, and the Slytherins cracked up again, with the exception of Pansy, who was glowering at him, and Draco, who was lying stretched out in front of the fire, eyes closed, smiling crookedly.

“This is so weird,” Daphne said, looking fascinated. “You were really there for all of it.”

“No, he really wasn’t,” Hermione said, voice cool.

“He just lived in Draco’s memories for a while,” Pansy said. “He stole them.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, my bad. I’m sorry.”

“But if he does know everything,” Blaise said, “he _must_ know the Chair Thing--”

“No, no,” Draco said.

“What is it?” Harry said, frustrated. Draco propped himself up on one elbow and made grabby hands for the wine; Harry handed it over. “Maybe I do know it and we just called it something different.”

“You couldn’t call it anything else,” Goyle said with certainty.

“I don’t think it could have existed in a world without Pansy,” Draco said lazily, and Pansy looked a little mollified. She came and sat by his head, sharing his bottle of wine and petting absently at his hair. Harry couldn’t bring himself to mind much this evening. He was full from another excellent dinner by Jeeps, and worn out from an afternoon of scurrying around the Manor testing the limits of the gramophone. It had cut out quite sharply the moment they stepped outside, but Draco said that was probably to stop the Manor startling all the birdlife, and it hadn’t been able to reach the dungeons, but Harry had been the only one willing to go down there, anyway. The Slytherins and Hermione had stopped resolutely in the hall leading down; Draco had said, pale, “I don’t think it’ll reach, I don’t, I don’t,” and turned away. Only Ron had gone with him as far as the dungeon doors, hanging back but watching, resolute. Anyway, Draco had been right.

Hermione had told them all several times that they should get back to searching the attics, but the rest of the Manor was lighting up, slowly, some of the dinge and darkness crawling away, and it was, at least, a lot less dusty than the attics. “We’ll get back to it tomorrow,” Harry had said confidently, and Draco had said, “Come here, Granger, I’ll show you the split charms,” and they’d spent half an hour crouched over tiny waving tendrils of plants that were creeping in through the kitchen window practicing.

“Didn’t you - wasn’t it weird,” Ron said, “being the only Gryffindor at all these Slytherin parties?”

“Well,” Harry said, surprised. “But you were there too.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. He took another slug of whiskey, and handed it to Hermione. “That’s… horrible.” He pressed in closer to Hermione’s shoulder, who gave him a sudden grin.

“Don’t worry,” she said, and patted his shoulder. “I’m here now. I’ll protect you.”

“Thank you, Granger,” Ron said.

“She was practically there in spirit,” Draco said, eyes closed. “We spent so much time discussing her.”

“Oh, yeah. We had to talk you out of following her and Neville along on the Horcrux hunt just to hang out with her,” Harry said. A terrible thought occurred to him. “Wait, is that why you were friends with me, too, to get close to Hermione?”

“You’ve cracked it,” Ron said, and the Slytherins laughed. Harry gave him the finger.

Draco yawned and stretched. “I miss the Slytherin parties,” he said. “The Common Room is so empty.”

“You could,” Harry began, and stopped, swallowed. He didn’t finish his sentence, conscious of everyone’s eyes on him, just laughed awkwardly. Draco opened his eyes, watched Harry for a moment.

“I think Potter can’t remember them properly,” Pansy said decisively, “not if there was no Chair Thing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry said, “Draco, just tell me--”

“It wasn’t just the Chair Thing, anyway,” Blaise said. “Some of us did _very_ well at those parties.” He looked around, smirking.

“In fourth year?” Ron said, laughing. “At _school_?”

“Where else,” Daphne said dismissively. “That’s the whole point of boarding school, isn’t it?”

“The advantage, certainly,” Theo said.

“Although some,” Blaise said, _sotto voce_ , “perhaps got a little carried away with the advantages, if you know what I mean--”

“Oh, come on,” Theo barked, looking a little outraged. “Our number is probably the same!”

“ _My_ number doesn’t include any Hufflepuffs,” Blaise said.

“What’s a number?” Ron said, and went red to the tips of his ears when Daphne gave him a long, languorous look. “Oh.”

“Nothing wrong with my number,” Theo said, looking annoyed. “Seventeen is perfectly respectable.”

“Seven _teen_ ,” Pansy said. “It was eleven last time we spoke!”

 

“Well, I’ve been living in France,” Theo explained, and about four people said _ohh_.

Blaise looked slightly annoyed. “What’s yours, Blaise?” Daphne asked, amused, and he grumbled, “Fourteen.”

“ _Fourteen_ is low?” Ron said, looking about ready to start wheezing, torn between worry and a very Mrs Weasley-esque expression. “Really?”

“No, of course not, they’re just stupid boys,” Daphne said. “I’m only at six. What can I say,” she added, looking smugly around, “I like to draw it out.”

“Five,” Goyle said, not making eye contact.

“Eleven,” Pansy said, matter-of-fact. “Come on, Gryffindors. Time to live up to your chaste reputations.”

“Two,” Ron said, going red.

Hermione patted him gently on the arm. “Also two,” she said, which surprised Harry but not, by the looks of it, Ron.

Pansy looked at him. “Two,” Harry said automatically.

“Really?” Ron looked intrigued. “Before or after Ginny? Or -- no, we’ll talk about it later,” he decided, looking around at the bright Slytherin gazes trained on them.

“It’s so sweet that you all match,” Daphne said, sounding very condescending. “Very… charming and chaste of you.”

“I don’t think two can count as chaste,” Hermione said, still mostly distracted by her book. “Even if it’s not as many as you lot, it’s still the opposite of chaste.”

“What about you, Malfoy?” Ron said. “What’s your number?”

Draco didn’t move, his long silhouette lit by the fire behind him, an arm draped over his own eyes, his whole body a still, warm line. “One,” he said dreamily, and the Slytherins erupted into shrieks of derision.

“You _fucking liar_ ,” Theo said, pounding the table, looking delighted, while Daphne rolled her eyes and Goyle shook his head, looking almost fond, mumbling, “In what world, Merlin.”

“What are you _talking_ about, Draco,” Pansy said, laughing. “I know at least _eight_ that you’ve told me about - nine if you count Blaise--”

“Which I do,” Blaise said, with a regal smile, “so you may as well.”

“What,” Draco said, sitting up, looking a little panicked. He shook his head. “I - no, you’re right, sorry, nine. I misunderstood the question.”

“You misunderstood your slutty, slutty past,” Daphne said, grinning, and Draco rolled his eyes and made a rude gesture at her. His gaze caught Harry’s, very briefly, both of their expressions wide and startled.

\---

“Did you really sleep with Cormac McLaggen, ‘Mione?” Harry asked, curious, on his way to bed.

“No, of course not,” Hermione said, and went a little pink. “It was Viktor, of course.”

“Who did _you_ sleep with, besides Ginny?” Ron said. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! That’s the kind of thing you need to tell me--”

“Ron,” Hermione said quietly, and Ron went quiet. Harry looked away.

It didn’t count, he supposed. It had never really happened. Never mind that he could still feel it, the hot length of Draco over him, Draco’s hair falling in his eyes as he crowded Harry back against the bed, the sweet stretch and burn and Draco’s mouth bitten red.

\---

The wine and food and afternoon of running around Malfoy Manor combined to make Harry sleep like a log, in a dense compacted nest of dreams that he woke from early in the morning, the first signs of grey in the sky but no sunrise, not even birdsong. He got up anyway, wide awake and sure that he couldn’t sleep anymore, and padded through the big house. It had snowed overnight and the grounds of the Manor looked fresh and clean, storybook the way he remembered them, the overgrown greenery hidden in a neat, thick blanket. He thought about going up to the attic and having a poke around to see if he recognised anything on his own, but instead he went down to the big kitchen that he knew and loved, and made two cups of tea.

Draco’s door was slightly ajar. Harry pushed it properly open and paused for a moment at the sight of two shapes in the bed, but Draco sat up a little and beckoned him in.

“It’s okay,” Draco murmured. “She sleeps through anything. Is that for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said, and sent Draco’s mug of tea floating across the room towards him. He went and sat on the opposite end of the bed, leaning against the backboard, and then changed his mind, shuffled down a little so that he could lie on his back, balancing his cup as a warm ring on his stomach. “Why’s she in here?” It was nice to be able to ask so simply, knowing that Draco wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t think that he was being jealous or weird.

Draco curled his free hand idly around Harry’s ankle. “We stayed up for a bit after everyone else went to bed,” he said. “Kept drinking. We came in here at some point. She’s - I think she’s mad at me that she wasn’t in the, the… dream.”

Harry frowned. He didn’t like talking about it like this, acknowledging it as a separate world and not just a strange shadowy part of their shared history now, its borders tenuous and edging into haze, promising to take over everything. “But that wasn’t your fault,” he said, reluctant.

“Mm, I know,” Draco said. He took a sip of his tea and startled. “Where did you find Yorkshire Tea?”

“Bottom shelf in the pantry,” Harry said.

“I thought we were all out,” Draco mused.

“No, Lucius used to keep an extra supply there, remember,” Harry said, and Draco nodded, sleepy and agreeable. “Do you think we’ll find something in the attic today?”

“No,” Draco said. He sighed, frowning. “I feel very sure we’re not going to, actually, but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to stop looking. I feel like we’re… missing something.”

“We never spent that much time in the attics,” Harry said. Draco pushed his feet out of the blankets and poked his toes idly at Harry’s cheek and Harry laughed, swatting them away. “Maybe we should be looking over the rest of the house instead.”

“Mm, but we’ve run about it a fair bit already,” Draco said. “I just don’t… I feel like I can almost remember. I feel like it’s obvious, like it’s right in front of me.”

“That’s probably just your dirty great nose,” Harry said solemnly, and Draco laughed, pushing up onto his elbows. His eyes were bright.

“Why are you all the way down there?” he asked, and Harry closed his eyes, stretched out slow and warm, conscious of Draco’s gaze on him.

“You’re the one who invited Pansy into my bed,” he said, and then corrected himself, “our bed. Your bed! Fuck it.”

“Our guest suites are nice,” Draco said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Harry grumbled. He half-wanted to sulk, but Draco smoothed his hand down Harry’s shin, over his pyjama pants, touching him warm and idle, and Harry sighed, took another sip of his tea instead. This bed _was_ more comfortable than any of the others, he thought. Although it was possible that he was just used to it.

There was a neat rap on the door and Daphne and Goyle came in. “Oh, hello,” Daphne said, giving Harry a surprised glance. “Draco, we’re going to go to the village.”

“Oh?” Draco said.

Daphne nodded. “Theo, too. Six people are enough to poke through those attics and we’re going to talk to people, see if they’ve noticed anyone up around the Manor lately, any strange visitors or anything. If they do want something from here they might have been scoping it out earlier, or even tried to break in.”

“Okay,” Draco said. “You’ll be all right on your own?”

“Three of us,” Goyle said, and Harry gave him a quick smile. Goyle looked vaguely shocked, but that was his expression most of the time these days, so Harry didn’t worry about it too much.

“Is Potter going to do another enormous breakfast?” Daphne asked, drawing in closer.

“He’s right there,” Draco said, amused.

Daphne cleared her throat. “Well, are you?”

“Mrgh,” Harry said. “I can’t be bothered. There’s too many of you.” It wasn’t as fun, cooking for a whole lot of argumentative, demanding Slytherins. It reminded him of the Dursleys.

Daphne frowned. “Go on. You did it yesterday--”

“Jeeps will do it,” Draco said. “What do you want?”

“Shouldn’t we summon him?” Harry asked.

“Oh, he’ll be listening,” Daphne said darkly. “He’s a creepy little thing.”

Goyle nudged her gently. “This is why your food always gets burned.”

“I like it that way,” Daphne said, haughty. “Especially on the bacon, please, Jeeps.”

”Oh, yes, big English breakfasts all round, please,” Pansy said, perfectly clearly, her eyes still shut. Harry’s hand jerked, slopping tea on the blankets. He couldn’t help feeling caught out, stretched out next to Draco; he wondered how long Pansy had been awake and listening to them. It wasn’t even as though they’d said anything particularly private, but Harry couldn’t help feeling on display, shown up, some secret part of him revealed. He tried to catch Draco’s eye but Draco was watching Pansy, looking perfectly unbothered. “With poached eggs.”

“And one with scrambled,” Draco said, and turned back, dropped Harry a wink.

\---

“It says here that sometimes magical objects can be a conflict,” Hermione said, frowning over her book. “They already have their own spells embedded in them, they have their own purposes, it’s not what you want.”

“I thought we were looking for some unknown magical object,” Pansy said.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “But now I’m wondering if it’s more like - a source object. I keep thinking about the curse, how detailed it was, how much power it had. Maybe they didn’t want to do it just once.”

Harry ignored her. He didn’t like it when Hermione talked about the dream. He said, “I think I’ve found some dead Veelas. In Veela form.”

“What do they want to do with it?” Ron asked. “I thought the whole point was to use a big powerful spell to try and find something out that was locked in Malfoy’s head. To trick him into giving it up.”

Draco wandered over to look at that trunk Harry was peering inside. “I think those are my great-grandmother’s bed jackets,” he said, and picked one up, shimmering gold silk with feathers pouring off it like wings.

“I know, I know,” Hermione said, rubbing her face. “It just won’t make sense to me.”

“Draco was saying that the dream hadn’t centred around any particular object,” Pansy put in, arms deep in a box of Christmas decorations. “Don’t you think it would be _more_ memorable?”

“Nice,” Harry told Draco, and Draco shook the bed jacket out around Harry’s shoulders. Harry slipped his arms in obediently, raised his eyebrows. Draco rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Not if they didn’t want to tip him off,” Hermione said. “If I could just work out which was _more_ important - the curse or the Manor--”

“I think it’s the curse,” Ron said. “There’s something weird going on there. There are easier ways to extract information. And even if they wanted to do it subtly, we’ve cottoned on now, haven’t we? So it wasn’t entirely foolproof. I think it’s something about the curse itself, got to be.”

“Lots of things have happened in Malfoy Manor,” Blaise disagreed, shaking his head. “Important things, terrible things, powerful things. Often all three. It makes sense to me that they’d want something from here.”

“Maybe Daphne and Theo and Goyle will find something out in the village,” Pansy said.

Draco pushed Harry gently into a long-abandoned beach chair, moth-eaten tapestry backing and beechwood arms with lazy scratches and initials carved into them, _NM, AB, SB, DM_. Harry stretched his legs out in front of him on the long line of the seat and waited. Draco went rummaging around the trunk some more and eventually produced a string of emeralds that he looped half a dozen times around Harry’s wrist, kneeling by his side and frowning intently, and then put an enormous straw hat on Harry’s head. Harry turned his arm back and forth. The jewels caught the dim light and sent sparkling patterns across the ceiling.

“Well?” Harry said.

“Not quite right,” Draco said.

“Maybe,” Hermione answered Pansy, sounding doubtful. “Isn’t the Manor rather hidden away from the village?”

“Of course, but that’s why there’s a chance someone will know what’s going on,” Blaise said. “They’re all obsessed with it. It’s sat up on the hill looming over them for years, and now it’s almost abandoned. You can bet they’ll be sneaking about trying to work out what’s going on.”

Ron groaned. “That’s going to be the real problem, then,” he said. “Bunch of them will have been wandering around here trying to have a snoop. They’re all going to report on each other.”

“Merlin,” Pansy said, annoyed. “Daphne will just have to talk to all of them, I suppose.”

“Aha,” Draco said, his whole body almost hidden in the wardrobe he’d half-climbed into, and crawled out triumphantly holding aloft a gauzy green veil. He draped it over the hat, half-on, half-off, so Harry’s face was framed by a great sweep of emerald netting. Then he added a pair of cat’s eye sunglasses. Harry grinned up at him.

“Oh, _boys_ ,” Hermione said, noticing.

“Yes, well done,” Blaise said tartly. “ _That_ will be useful.”

Harry looked over at where Hermione and Ron were staring, a little guilty, but was distracted by Draco reaching up high to pull of an enormous camera from a shelf. It seemed like a cross between a Polaroid and something much more old-fashioned, with a black curtain that Draco had to drape over his head, disappearing behind it, holding it up with steady hands.

“Smile,” Draco said. Harry did.

\---

“Wasn’t Malfoy Manor under siege or something, in the war?” Ron said. “And no one’s lived here in months? Where is this unending supply of alcohol coming from?”

“We’ve got a well-stocked cellar,” Draco said, and hiccoughed. Harry laughed, raked an affectionate hand through Draco’s hair, over the back of his neck. Draco leaned in a little closer and said, “I can see you cheating, Potter.”

“I’m not!”

“You have to discarded your Kings if you have them--”

“I don’t have them,” Harry said, and then, at Draco’s incredulous look. “I don’t!”

“I’m going to remember that later,” Draco said, and handed out another four cards.

“I don’t understand this game,” Pansy said.

“It’s a very weird mix of about three, as far as I can tell,” Hermione said. She was on her fourth game of the night, paying close attention, and had just started to win.

“James taught us,” Draco said, “we played all the time in Italy - no, Pans, you can’t play an ace after a trump.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Pansy said, shuffling through her cards with a scowl. Daphne started picking through the discards with a vaguely interested expression; she’d been quiet all evening, dispirited by the absolute lack of success of her village mission. No one had seen anything. Harry supposed it was a setback, but he couldn’t bring himself to care very much.

“Were you more of a Slytherin in this world or something, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Harry almost was in Slytherin,” Draco said absently, and ignored the uproar this threw most of the Slytherins into.

“Check,” Harry said.

“Fuck,” Draco said precisely, and threw his cards down.

“You know the rules,” Harry said, grinning, and Draco sighed and picked up the tequila shot, necking it down.

“Did we have… more fun in your weird world?” Ron asked, flinching at the look Hermione shot him.

Neither of them answered. Draco said, “Someone put a new record on.”

It was nice, sitting around in the cold evenings playing dumb games and drinking. They’d all given up on sitting on opposite sides of the room, and even talking about the dream, for the most part. It was too exhausting to hunt all day through dusty rooms - they’d finished up in the attics, moved onto some of the storage rooms in the west gable - and then keep trying to work out what on earth the attackers wanted. It was much more pleasant to lie around and trash talk each other lazily, with Draco’s head drifting closer and closer to Harry’s shoulder.

Pansy was watching, perhaps too narrow-eyed. “No,” she said. “Play us something, Draco.”

Draco yawned. “Now?”

“Go on,” she said, and Draco picked himself up, amenable enough, went and sat at the piano. He yawned again and stared vaguely into space, gaze sleepy, but then launched into a rich, rolling piece of classical music that Harry vaguely recognised but couldn’t put a name to. It was bright and jangly like gold pieces and Draco played so easily, fingers stretching over the keys, the room so full of music that it seemed impossible it was only one player on one instrument. Ron and Hermione stared, with their eyes wide; the Slytherins gazed at him with an alarming mix of fondness and reverence. Harry wasn’t sure what was showing on his face as Draco turned his own frowning face to the keys, laughed at himself over a flub, let the piece wander off into its own weird digressive territory, and then came storming back.

Harry thought, in swift, brief succession, of Draco playing the piano and making Sirius laugh at Harry’s sixteenth birthday - of Draco tinkering around with the piano left in their honeymoon suite - of Draco with Scorpius in his lap, showing him where to put his fingers on the keys. He stood up and cleared his throat.

“Come on,” he said. Draco cut off, surprised, lifting his head. “Put some real music on, something we can dance to.”

“Potter,” Pansy said, glaring, but Draco slammed down the lid of the piano.

“Fine,” he said, something hard and dangerous in his eyes. The music he put on was shivery, stuttering, beats falling away, made something hot crawl under Harry’s skin. He couldn’t take his eyes off Draco - he was bored of his own hunger. _He’s_ my _husband_ , he caught himself thinking, and had to look away.

The Slytherins passed around tequila. Nobody passed it up this time; even Hermione was drinking steadily, her hand on Ron’s thigh, her gaze sharp. Draco drank until he started laughing, his whole body loose, his mouth cruel and generous, looking at Harry with a slow, hot disdain that made Harry think about fifth year. He couldn’t remember which fifth year anymore.

“I thought you were going to dance, Potter,” Pansy said, mocking. “Isn’t that what you wanted the music for?”

Theo laughed. “Go on,” he said, “give us a show.”

“Fuck off,” Harry mumbled.

“Draco,” Daphne said, eyes bright, “please, _please_. It’s been so long. Do the Chair Thing.”

Draco looked over his shoulder from where he was standing by the window, hand curled over the sill. It was like there was a wild cat in the room that Harry had tricked himself into thinking was tame.

“Oh, all right,” he said carelessly.

Daphne leapt up with delight and started the record over at the beginning. Blaise summoned one of the heavy brocade chairs from the dining room. The Slytherins gathered, whooping, and Harry slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets.

Draco did the Chair Thing.

It was very good.

Harry went to bed dry-mouthed and head reeling. He was drunk. He felt sick with desire, rougher than it had been when he was sixteen and frightened about his best friend. He wanted Draco underneath him, wanted Draco over him, wanted the two of them to fight the way they had only a few weeks ago at Hogwarts, wanted Draco to want him as roughly and meanly as he knew Draco was capable of. He was shuddering all over even before he wrapped a hand around himself, and the bed was so empty and ugly he wanted to scream.

\---

The next day was awful. Everyone was hungover and furious; tensions flaring and then dissipating into sulky silence. They worked steadily through the gable. Hermione decided that they had to set _some_ things aside for further examination, and so every time they stumbled across something that looked even faintly familiar to Harry they put it in a pile. Soon there was a box of probable junk, and Harry’s head hurt from trying to separate out which life he’d been living.

At lunch he went off on his own, took a sandwich and a crystal flagon of sparkling water towards the greenhouses. It meant a trudge across crisp snow and breathing in the frozen air, which helped, a little, to cool Harry’s aching head. He sat in the conservatory, the glass doors closed against the wind. He’d loved this place in the summer, had lain dozing or fixing his broom while Draco read and slept next to him. He remembered, vaguely, being caught in a thunderstorm and sheltering here, twenty-two and late for dinner with his parents; Draco had sent a Patronus explaining they’d be late, and they’d sat laughing and talking and getting steadily hungrier.

He ate his sandwich in four bites, closed his eyes. He wanted it to be spring when he opened them. He wanted it to be winter still, and Malfoy Manor his again.

When he went back inside they were talking about Christmas.

“I’m having it with my parents,” Hermione said, “back in Hampstead. We were going to have it with the Weasleys at the Burrow, but, well, their memories are still a bit - tricky, and I don’t want any magic to - to startle them.”

She looked around at the Slytherins like she was daring them to say anything, but their faces were all cast down.

“I’m going to France with Theo,” Goyle said. His voice was like lead; his parents, Harry remembered, had both been Death Eaters, and both killed in the final battle.

“I’ll have it with Mum and her latest husband,” Blaise said. “In London. I’ll probably go to Pansy’s after dinner.”

Pansy nodded. She looked tired. “Just a small one this year,” she said.

“Are you - your mother’s in Italy, right, Malfoy?” Ron said, clearly trying. “Are you going to join her?”

Draco’s face looked very thin and pinched. “I’m not meant to leave England,” he said, toneless. “Under the terms of my probation.”

Ron winced. “Right. Sorry.”

Everyone looked at Harry.

Last Christmas had been at Malfoy Manor, he thought; Lily and James in an uneasy truce with Narcissa, and Scorpius running around delighted, and a Christmas Tree so huge in the opening foyer that it had brushed up past three floors of balcony. The Christmas before that he and Draco had taken Scorpius with them to Godric’s Hollow and then the Burrow, and the Christmas before that had been in France, with all their family and the Weasleys too, sparkling snow across the valley and big bundles of onions and garlic hanging in the stone kitchen, a fire crackling in the hearth. The Christmas before that they’d had just to themselves, the three of them: their first one with Scorpius. It had been quiet and frightening and tender.

“We should get back to work,” Harry said. He hung back, though, as everyone started trooping upstairs. His shoulder banged against Draco’s and Draco turned to look at him, something careful about his expression. Harry swallowed. “Are you mad at me?”

Draco shook his head. Their fingers brushed. They went upstairs.

That night Harry couldn’t sleep. They all went to bed early, and Harry tossed uncomfortably in his borrowed bed, considered getting up and continuing the hunt, considering going into Ron and Hermione’s room, considered going to the library and finding something to read. Finally, around three, he got up and went to the bathroom, pissed and washed his hands, stood at the window for a while. It was snowing again, the grounds quiet. Everything felt close and still, like this was the last house left in the world. It was hard to believe that there were attackers out there, perhaps waiting to converge, waiting to come down on them and this house.

Harry went out of the bathroom and turned left, instead of right. He didn’t let himself think about it. He went along the hall instead, and turned the doorknob as quietly as he could, and padded in.

He wasn’t quite quiet enough. Draco stirred, mumbling to himself and then clearer. “Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He closed the door behind him. “It’s just me. Sorry.”

“Mm,” Draco said. “C’mere,” and he pulled the blankets in front of him back. Harry slipped into bed, sighing as he settled into familiar grooves, and Draco drew him back until his back was pressed against Draco’s chest.

Draco yawned against Harry’s shoulder, pressed a light kiss there. “Hair,” he mumbled, and Harry obediently lifted his head, tucked his growing hair under his cheek so it didn’t tickle Draco’s nose. Draco yawned again and said through it, voice thick, “Score okay?”

Harry’s chest hurt. “He’s fine,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm.” Draco slung an arm over Harry’s chest, groped around for his hand. He threaded their fingers together. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” Harry said. He felt miserable, and guilty, like he was lying to Draco or tricking him. He drew in a couple of breaths and said, “This is real.”

“Mm?”

“It’s real,” Harry said, stubborn. “I want this one to be real. I want it.”

“Harry,” Draco said. His arm around Harry tightened. He yawned again. “You’re having a bad dream,” he said, muzzy. “Go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. To his surprise he did sleep, almost immediately, fell into something deep and comforting, warm red behind his eyelids. When he woke up the other side of the bed was cold and he was nervous, coming downstairs, but Draco just gave him a quick, rueful glance and pushed over, making room for him at the breakfast table, passing Harry the scrambled eggs.

The next day the snow stopped falling, settled glossy white over the grounds. Harry leaned out the window to watch it and Draco yawned, slumped golden in his seat. Harry said, “It’s pretty, but I wish we could go swim in the lake or something. I’m going stir crazy.”

“I know,” Draco said fondly. “I think even you wouldn’t be able to swim in this weather, though. Besides, the lake’s frozen.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I just want to go outside. What do you think our chances are of talking everyone into going flying?”

“Not good,” Draco said. He yawned. Then he straightened. “You know what we could do, though?”

“What?” Harry said, turning. “Oh! Yeah?”

“Why not?” Draco said, grinning.

“Could we have an explanation for the non-creepy twins?” Daphne said.

Hermione said, “We need to get back to searching, guys--”

“We could have a break, though, Hermione,” Harry said brightly. “We could go out on the lake.”

Ron blinked. “In the snow?”

Hermione started to smile. “Well,” she said, and turned to Draco. “Do you have skates in my size?”

“We have skates in _everyone’s_ size,” Harry said grandly, and led the way to the hall cupboard, which he had to crawl into on his hands and knees to scour out the dirty corners of it, throwing skates over his shoulder and nearly braining several Slytherins in the process. There were a fair few complaints but everyone was laughing and talking all at once, fresh as the snow outside and desperate to get out of the house for a while.

Harry was half-worried that his own skates wouldn’t be there, that they were one of the quiet, cruel lies of the whole situation, but sure enough his hand hit on them: sleek black with green embroidery, the same pair Draco had given him for his twentieth birthday. Harry stared at them for a moment and then looked back over his shoulder at Draco, holding them up. Draco shook his head, smiling crooked, hands held up empty with no explanation.

Hermione would have one, if he asked, Harry was sure - they would be unused skates, or ones that Draco had received and converted into a present for Harry somehow deep in the curse. He didn’t ask. He wanted every gift the house would give him.

They trooped outside into the cold in heavy coats and scarves, their skates slung over one shoulder.

“Daphne’s the best, obviously,” Blaise said, “and Theo’s probably second best, but I’m just saying, it’s neck and neck after that--”

“Oh, Blaise, come on, I can outskate you with my hands tied,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not about _speed_ , it’s about style,” Blaise said.

“It’s a little bit about speed,” Draco said.

Harry laughed. “I want you to repeat that when you’re mad at me for beating you again.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You cheat.”

“I don’t have to,” Harry said.

“Yes, Potter’s good at a sport, colour us all shocked,” Pansy said.

“This lake is huge,” Ron said cheerfully as they started down the hill towards it. “We used to go skating when we were kids but there was only this little pond in Ottery St Catchpole, and anyway, Fred and George would always salt bits of it and you had to be careful--”

“God,” Hermione said, shuddering, and then grinned up at Harry. “My parents used to take me ice skating in London. For a little while I wanted to be a figure skater, I think. Between wanting to be a marine biologist and wanting to be a physicist.”

“I don’t know what either of those are,” Draco said, sounding amused despite himself, “but I wanted to be a figure skater for a while, too.”

“Save us,” Ron said, startled.

At the lake they sat on the wooden benches scattered around it to lace on their skates - they were magical, so the ones that didn’t quite fit, like Pansy’s and Ron’s and Goyle’s, shrunk or grew as needed, eager laces whipping around into tight knots.

Harry’s were a perfect fit. “Like Cinderella,” Draco said, smirking at him.

“I wish you two would stop flirting,” Blaise said glumly. “It really freaks me out.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He stood up, balancing awkwardly in the snow. He was already excited to be on the lake, the smooth push of the skates, the way it felt as close to flying as he could get on the ground. Ron and Hermione headed down to the lake together, pushing off easily; Ron was a sturdy skater, a little wobbly at first before he got into it, but Hermione flashed around in circles, laughing at the Slytherins’ surprise.

“This is the only way Muggles get to fly,” she called. “Well, this and airplanes.”

“Oh, Merlin, they scare me _so much_ ,” Theo said, coming down to join her, skating in elegant figure eights and backwards, his arms thrown out wide, fingers curling in the cold air. Showing off, but to be fair, he did look good. “Them and those other horrible things. What are they called? Hellycoppers? One almost killed Draco, you know.”

Harry opened his mouth. Draco put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Shush,” he said, and added, eyes bright, “please.” He stepped onto the lake and took off, hands in his pockets, a slim lovely figure against the cool blue ice of the lake.

Harry let him have a little head start before he stepped onto the lake and shoved off violently. He half-caught the feel of wind on his face, and then his feet got twisted between him, the skates seeming to stick, and he tumbled down, hitting the ice so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

“One down!” Blaise called, smirking.

Harry stared at the ice and his hands. He tried to stagger up to his feet and couldn’t manage it.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, wheeling easily round and skating back to him. Ron followed, a little slower, and the two of them helped him to his feet, though his legs kept trying to take off in different directions and he couldn’t get his balance, leaning hard from side to side.

“I don’t - I don’t understand,” he said, breathless. “Is there something wrong with my skates?”

Draco came skating closer, not quite reaching them, face unreadable.

“Have you ever skated before?” Hermione asked.

Harry gaped at her. “Of course! Hundreds of times--”

“Harry,” Hermione said. “Have you ever skated before in real life, I mean. Outside of the curse.”

Harry swallowed. “I mean.” The Dursleys had taken Dudley, sometimes, but never him. They’d left him in the car outside the park, usually. Harry shook his head, squeezed that image out, replaced it with being ten and nervous on his own pair of skates, his dad holding his hand, Sirius skating ahead and coaching him.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said. “Don’t be upset. You’ve just never tried it before, that’s all.”

“I have,” Harry said. “I have! And I can do everything else from the dream, I can - I can - I know the card game and all the Slytherin parties--”

“Those are memories,” Hermione said patiently. “Stolen from each other, or traded back and forth. And you can remember things that only involve your head, of course. But this is a physical skill, Harry. Your body just doesn’t know it.”

She and Ron started moving, very slowly, arms linked through Harry’s and bringing him along with them. He felt like a child, or an idiot.

“This is why it’s not a good idea to think of the curse as a real world,” Hermione said, dark eyes trained on his face.

“It’s okay,” Ron said, and patted his back. “You can learn how.”

Ron was right, of course. It was stupid to be upset. Harry could even see there was a knack to it, after a while, the kind of thing that if he worked at would turn into the shining sleek movement he remembered. He could even get on alone, Ron and Hermione going ahead while Harry worked his way determinedly, slowly, wobbling, around the edges of the lake, avoiding the reeds poking up through the ice.

It just wasn’t the escape he’d expected or wanted. It was another miserable return to the world he didn’t want. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing along, watched Theo and Daphne skating easily in circles around each other, watched Blaise’s lazy grace as he skated alongside Goyle, who had a weirdly similar style to Draco, a bit slower but just as tall and easy with his hands in his pockets. Pansy moved awkwardly but quickly back and forth and Ron and Hermione were holding hands. Hary’s jaw hurt with tension.

“Come on, Potter,” Draco said quietly, coming up behind him. He slipped his arm through Harry’s and took off, dragging Harry along with him.

Harry yelped and flailed and clutched onto Draco’s elbow, glaring up at him. “Not so fast!”

“I’ve got you,” Draco said. He looked unhappy, tired. “Typical of Saint Potter to sulk because he’s not brilliant at something right away.”

“I used to be good at it,” Harry said, sullen.

“No, you never were,” Draco said. They stayed quiet. Harry moved his feet as best he could, and Draco’s smooth sail countered out Harry’s awkwardness. He was vaguely aware that people were watching them. He felt stupid and small, on display, and remembered that the dream had been a curse, and that it had betrayed him.

Finally Goyle announced that he was hungry and Pansy said that she was tired and they took their skates off, headed back up towards the house. Harry was still miserable, and Draco clearly was, too, and was dealing with it by being very arch and mocking, one of Harry’s least favourite Draco moods.

“Honestly, your arrogance is unbelievable,” Draco said cheerfully, making Pansy laugh. “Just because some bad wizards made you think you could do something--”

“Shut up,” Harry said. “I could do the card game. I could do the dance.”

“I think you need to stop relying on a card game to prove your point,” Draco said, going a little pink and pointedly ignoring any reference to dancing. “There were lots of things in that world that clearly weren’t possible.”

Harry scowled at him. “Like what.”

“Like me getting off scot-free for deserting from the Dark Lord,” Draco said, giving him a horrible sneer. He paused, then added, “And you being cheerful all the time.”

“I’m perfectly capable of being cheerful, thanks,” Harry snapped, ignoring the worried looks Hermione and Ron were trading.

“I’ve seen no evidence of that,” Draco said, pushing open the front door and exchanging a smirk with Pansy. “Hmm, what else. Getting on with my mother. Picking me up.”

Harry blinked. “I could pick you up.”

“Are we speaking metaphorically or literally?” Ron said, looking pained.

“I don’t actually know which is worse,” Pansy said.

Draco gave Harry an incredulous look. “You could not pick me up. I’m half a head taller than you.”

“Thanks, I never noticed,” Harry said, and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you’re not exactly buff, are you? It’s just a handful of bones--”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Draco said. “You wish.”

Harry shrugged. “I just know I can.”

“See, the arrogance,” Draco remarked, apparently to everyone. “It’s unbelievable.”

“All right, Draco, we know,” Blaise said, sounding bored. “Fun as this flashback to school conversations has been.”

“We should get back to work,” Hermione said. “We’ve got a few hours before dinner.”

“Let’s try another room,” Ron agreed. “If I have to spend another minute staring at that weird snake wallpaper I’m going to scream.”

“I’ve got bad news for you about the wallpaper, Weasley,” Daphne said, grinning. “It was a bit of a _theme_ when Narcissa redecorated--”

“Heads up,” Draco said abruptly, and Harry had just enough time to drop his skates and his coat before Draco was throwing himself at Harry, a breathless pale face and too many limbs. Harry caught him, though, with the certainty of a lifetime, and then suddenly Draco was there, in Harry’s arms, knees drawn up to Harry’s waist and staring at him.

“Uhm,” Ron said.

“Told you,” Harry said. His voice came out lower than he’d expected.

“Um,” Draco said. “I - yes.” He licked his lips. “Yes. I was wrong.”

Neither of them moved. Harry couldn’t stop looking up into Draco’s familiar, dear face. Draco’s eyes were huge and shocked, like someone had hit him.

“Maybe,” Pansy said, “maybe we should go and - get started--”

Draco twitched as though to get down and Harry tightened his grip instinctively; then Draco made a tiny noise and Harry shoved forward, knocking Draco’s back against the wall, and kissed him hard and furious. Draco grabbed at the back of his shirt, his hair, breathless, and Harry was vaguely aware of footsteps hurrying away but he couldn’t pay it any attention, busy kissing Draco slow and bruising, hands sliding down Draco’s sides, desperate to touch him all over.

“Let me - let me down,” Draco mumbled. Harry did and was rewarded by Draco yanking him in closer, pushing a leg between Harry’s, mouth hot and burning as it pressed against Harry’s, nipped at his jaw, kissed at his throat.

“Jesus,” Harry said, the word lost between their mouths. Draco was shivering all over, trying to slide his cold hands up under Harry’s shirt, and Harry wanted to let him, Harry would give him everything, it had been so fucking long, he’d been drowning and Draco had just offered him air, was kissing him awake and alive again. Harry knocked in closer, pushed Draco’s coat off his shoulders.

“Upstairs, upstairs,” Draco said, “I want you in our bed,” and Harry groaned, let Draco steer him up the stairs. They went slow, bumping into things, pausing to make out breathless and desperate in corners. It felt so _right_. Harry didn’t care about curses or dreams or the truth anymore, he just wanted this. His whole life, handed back to him.

“Fuck,” Draco said, and they staggered along the corridor. Draco kept grabbing at Harry like he couldn’t get enough, like he, too, had been starving. His hands skated along Harry’s hair. “Harry - sweetheart--”

“Take your shirt off,” Harry said, garbled, breathless, “take it off right now, I mean it, fuck, I love you,” and Draco was laughing down at him, bright-eyed, half-struggling out of his shirt. Harry missed his mouth, made it worse by kissing Draco again while Draco was half in and half out of it. His fingers were clumsy on Draco’s buttons, trying to help.

“Sweetheart,” Draco murmured, like a promise, and Harry drew back to look at him, all his, back in the life he wanted. Then he froze.

“What’s that?” he said.

Draco’s warm mouth crooked up, eyes bright and soft. “What?”

Harry undid another of Draco’s shirt buttons, hands trembling. Then he pressed Draco close against the wall again, but stood back this time, desperate, surveying him: the scar was white near the top where it snaked up Draco’s throat, but livid pink the lower it got, twisted scar tissue, a ripped web of pain and violence that snagged right in the centre of Draco’s chest. Harry was shivering all over. 

“Who did that?” he snarled. “I’ll kill them, who touched you--” and Draco looked down too.

For a moment both of them were still. Then Draco shoved him away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, voice rising. “You did it! Get away from me!”

“I - I wouldn’t--” Harry said. It wouldn’t make sense. Draco crying in the bathroom, Draco’s shoulders shaking: _This isn’t the way it happened_ , he’d said. Except he hadn’t said that: he’d shouted _Crucio_ , and Harry had, Harry had--

“Keep your hands off me,” Draco said. He was scrambling along the wall like he didn’t dare turn his back to Harry, eyes wide with shock and panic. “Don’t touch me! You did it!”

“I never,” Harry said, “I wouldn’t,” and saw blood on the bathroom floor.

“You did,” Draco said, voice high, almost hysterical. “You _did_. It was real. _I remember it_.”

He turned his hands up, like an offering, and Harry saw the thin white scars streaking over his palms: where Draco had ripped the dream apart.

Harry turned away, bile rising, and retched. He stumbled down the stairs, crashed awkwardly against an unfamiliar plinth, saw Ron and Hermione’s pale faces as they came running out to see what was wrong. Harry made it to the front door in a last burst of energy and then stood there panting, shaking, not quite able to open it. The house seemed to be shrinking in on him, dark, malevolent, gloating, never his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very very much for sticking with me in the huge delay between chapters. I cannot say when the next chapter will be up but it will be finished. as ever feel free to come hang out on [Tumblr](dddraconis.tumblr.com) and let's all judge me 4 the two v cheesy references in this chap xoxo


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